The Restored Life
by La Penserosa
Summary: Sequel to Bait & Switch. Reid is out of the hospital after the event of Bait and has been assigned to accompany David Rossi on a book tour and campus recruitment junket. During their stop in San Francisco the rest of the team joins them to investigate a case and Reid meets an enigmatic man in a bookstore who may hold more than just potential salvation for Reid. Slash, eventually.
1. At Land's End

_**Warning, This story does (or will) contain: slash, description of crime scenes, descriptions of past crimes (yes, that scene from the last story), occasional profanity and sexual suggestion. If a particular chapter requires a particular caution I will provide it then. As always, this is evolving as I write it so I reserve the right to add to this list of naughtiness.**  
_

_A burning sting consumed his feet and he cried out without hesitation. "Please, I'll recite the whole thing. You don't need to do this." His vision was dark and the burning of the soles of his feet intensified. He thrashed all he could on the strong wooden frame but he knew there was no hope of escaping his fate – escaping the pain. _

_Then the darkness gave way and a window opened toward the center of his vision. "Any last words?" The face had high cheekbones and a strong angular jaw but for all of its power, the skin was sallow and stretched thin which gave it a terrifying quality when a smile spread across the man's lips and he arched a patch of yellow skin where an eyebrow had at one point grown. "Tell us, why did you do it?" _

_He screamed, begged, and struggled against the hard wooden seat, trying to get his arms free, trying to get out of this nightmare. The curtain swung back and there he sat in the gallery, ready to bear witness to it all. He stared imploringly at the tall man in the charcoal gray suit and the deep glower of disappointment across his face. Next to the man in the charcoal suit sat a familiar face – those blue eyes – moving closer, through the glass, and toward the chair. _

_Then those blue eyes were all he could see as a searing pain shot through his body and he felt those rough, strong hands take hold of his thrashing head. "If you relax, it will hurt less." _

_The young man in the chair thrashed and screamed, catching glimpses of the angry man in the charcoal gray suit in the periphery of those eyes and the pain. Through his sobs, the young man gasped for air, trying to swallow it down like a fish plucked from its watery environment. _

Spencer Reid continued to gulp and gasp until an inhaled salty, teardrop had him coughing his away into wakefulness. The pangs of overwhelming sorrow that hit Dr. Spencer Reid upon opening his eyes were enough to have him longing for the finality of his dream world. The fact that he was alive and awake was cause enough for him to plummet toward despair all over again. This was a ritual he had begrudgingly become accustomed to each and every night since he'd been released from the hospital. The dreams threatened to chase Reid from the idea of sleep for good.

Thankfully, Spencer had been spared the humiliation of anyone else witnessing his early morning routine. Morgan had tried to talk his way into staying with Reid after he'd been released from the hospital and Spencer would have none of it – he'd rather deal with the humiliation of sleeping upright in his living room alone, thank you.

Spencer was loathe to admit it but he missed Jason Gideon – he missed having a reasonable excuse for being awake all night, still at the BAU, and still at the older man's side. Jason had this way of knowing Spencer so well that he could judge just how much distance to keep and when. Reid knew he was cared for even when it wasn't readily apparent and that feeling is what sustained him for the first few months of Gideon's departure. Morgan and Hotch didn't even come close to that kind of balance when it came to Reid.

Yes, Hotch. Aaron Hotcher, also known as, the man who had served him up on a silver platter for some half-way decent recounting of a criminal's misdeeds and pathology. Reid had brought his former coworker Elle to mind – the absolute cryptic despair that hung about her before she murdered that man. Elle's despair did no longer seem so far off, or cryptic.

Christopher Keller was gone and as strange as it was to admit; he couldn't hate Keller. He understood why he did what he did and somehow that macabre understanding spared Reid from hating the dead man. Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, and David Rossi were all still very much alive and Reid had a long way to go before he could afford them all the same understanding.

This last sentiment was obviously felt by more than just Dr. Spencer Reid because, during his first conversation with Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, Reid found himself swiftly moved onto the next assignment – keeping David Rossi on the straight and narrow, while killing a book tour, and campus recruitment survey, with one trip. Reid had stood in Hotch's office speechless with confusion, anger, and the struggle to keep himself in check. He wanted to scream at Hotch – the same man that had the gall to punish him when he used his profiling and empathy skills but was more than willing to dangle him like a worm on a hook, unarmed, in front of a serial murdering sexual sadist. If Reid had any confidence that he could have verbally flayed his superior, he would have done it. As it stood, he choked over even the simplest of phrases and before he knew it, he was out the door, and on the road.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Rossi had kept Reid at arm's length for most of the journey, until the night that they checked into a hotel during their Northern California tour - a stop somewhere between Silicon Valley and San Francisco. Later that evening, after a campus guest lecture spot, Rossi made no effort to depart from Reid when they arrived at the young man's door.

"Can I join you for a nightcap? I don't know about you, kid, but after today I can practically hear it calling my name." Rossi patted Reid's bristled shoulders as they both entered the young man's room.

"They have meetings for that, you know?" Reid deadpanned, looking Rossi in the eye.

After Rossi finished shushing Reid's protestations about this showing up on the bill that would be seen by the Bureau, he poured them both a drink. The entire time Reid sat uncomfortably waiting for Rossi to finish his drink and move on so he could begin his night long ritual of tossing, turning, and generally fighting exhaustion.

"C'mon , kid. I can't play chess to save my life but I'll still sit and talk," Rossi paused and placed a hand on Reid's shoulder and a freshly poured drink in his hand, "or sit and listen, if you'd prefer."

This was Reid's cue to do what he did best, deflect with a fact-laden rant on an admittedly mind-numbing topic, in this case Reid decided to share his exploits with a freshly self-translated version of an obscure Medieval text. Rossi smiled as Reid spoke at a rapid-fire pace. Rossi sat and listened only breaking his focus once more to pour himself another generous drink. Rossi sat for hours as Reid talked and talked, his voice cracked with wear, and his throat became dry when the ice in his drink disappeared. Reid's eyes had grown heavy with the exhaustion aided on by the consumption of more alcohol than he was used to.

Rossi watched as Reid weaved in and out of consciousness, fighting to stave off the alcohol's attempt to bring the curtains down on his vision. Suddenly, Reid whined, "You need to go," and before Rossi could inject his opinion, Reid let out a tortured sigh, "You won't go. Please, go," It was as if Reid had given up on having any say on what happened when another stronger personality entered the equation.

Rossi stood and pulled Reid into a standing position, placing the young man's arm around his shoulders, and hoisting him the short distance onto the nearby bed. Reid was trying to remain calm and unaffected but the alcohol had loosened his hold on his emotions and the fear he fought constantly since Keller's abuses was disturbingly palpable. He couldn't help but give in to the shot of adrenaline that coursed through him, even as he told himself over and over that this was a man he could trust with his life. No matter, he wanted him to leave. He couldn't-. Just, Just no. Reid's heart began to beat faster and his palms grew damp – a sadly familiar part of his nighttime ritual.

Reid tried to sit up but Dave placed a hand on the younger man's chest.

Reid cried out and in breathless pleas, began to beg, sounding more like a terrified child than an almost thirty-year-old genius.

"Reid," Rossi's hand rubbed in comforting circles, on a hand that had unconsciously clutched, with white knuckles, at the forearm of Rossi's shirt as he tried to lower him back to the bed. "Reid, it's okay. It's just me here." Spencer's grip softened as he allowed himself to fall back onto the pillows of his already turned down bed.

"What were you telling me about earlier…"Dave trailed off, mumbling something remotely academic sounding. Reid picked up on it and wanted to remain discussing it but he couldn't hold off sleep for much longer. Dave looked down at the younger man, smiling as Reid's eyelids gave in and slammed closed.

Rossi sat on the bed for a beats before rising quietly to his feet. For a moment, Hotch's image came to Rossi's mind – thoughts of how a father would be a better one to try and heal these wounds.

Morgan had sat with Reid for his entire stay in the hospital after Keller's attack. In that time Morgan had gathered every detail that could possibly spare Reid from appearing in-person for a deposition. What Derek Morgan wrote in his report was the only knowledge the BAU team members had of what had happened to Dr. Spencer Reid at the Oswald Correctional Facility. Morgan refused to speak of the details of those days in the hospital to anyone. Though Rossi had read the report, and that information was information enough, he knew that those details were probably not complete, and judging by way that Reid fought sleep, affecting him much more deeply than he wanted to let on.

Again Rossi's thoughts turned to Hotch, he'd been wracked with guilt over Reid's injury and filled with even more turmoil over the best apparent solution – to send Reid as far away from the BAU, and himself, as possible. Rossi had assured Aaron Hotchner many times before their departure that Reid would not hate him for this separation. He needed the time, Dave rationalized. Spencer will handle this in his own time and hanging about the BAU doing paperwork for the next six weeks was not the way for him to arrive at possibility of forgiveness.

When Rossi had left the room Reid had been still, calm, and deeply immersed in sleep. The next morning told the all too evident truth that Spencer's peace did not sustain him for long that night. The most noticeable thing were the circles under Dr. Reid's eyes – they had deepened and grown until they looked more like a small chasm right beneath his eye. Reid had tried to compensate for his lack of sleep with plenty of coffee and the combination of the two for days, going on weeks, on end had taken its toll. Reid tried to minimize his movements for fear that his shaking had become obvious.

Rossi launched immediately into their remaining stops on the schedule. "I'll be taking the today's session at SF State's College of Behavioral Sciences."

At first the words didn't really register with Reid but then he absorbed the intended meaning and looked up at Rossi with tired gaze of confusion, Rossi just shook his head. "Reid, you can barely stay awake through your breakfast," the idea of lightening his tone never occurred to Rossi, "today, once we check into my cousin's place, try to get some rest." For the last three states Rossi had been telling Reid about how much he could look forward to his experience in the North Beach district of San Francisco. Rossi's cousin had inherited the business through generations beginning somewhere when area was still known as the Barbary Coast and it was, Dave said with a hint of pride in his voice, reputed to have provided board to pirates as well as at one time serving as a brothel –now, it was a bed and breakfast. The hotel had also been one of the few to survive the 1905 and 1989 earthquakes and had the level of grandeur to be expected of even the most modest pieces of history. The lobby ceiling was all carved wood the color of deep amber. The floor was a beautiful cascade of green and blue tiles giving a feeling of instant, lush calm. Suddenly, the room was filled with booming when a large barrel-chested man rounded the corner bellowing Rossi's name, or some version thereof.

They threw their arms around each other and embraced jovially. After a kiss on either cheek, the men broke contact and Rossi turned to Dr. Reid, "This is Dr. Spencer Reid, he's a colleague at the-"

Before Spencer could here Rossi finish the rest of the sentence he was swept up off his feet in a similarly jostling hug. Reid just fell back onto his heels when the man let go. The larger Rossi took the lead through the lobby to check them in and, thankfully, Spencer thought, to their rooms. Rossi didn't need to work too hard to convince Reid to stay in, get settled, and catch up on some of his sleep.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Two hours of tossing and turning before Reid slowly drifted to sleep and back into a familiar nightmare.

_Suddenly propelled forward across the cement floor, he threw himself in between the black length of a nightstick and Keller's body. It was that slightly pink, newly exposed skin on his head. The thought of beads of precipitation coursing down his neck and they secured him to that frame…he couldn't let it happen. Reid sat inside himself, screaming for his body to stop for his hands to obey his will and just let it happen. Let the guard beat Keller. Let Reid return home sad, broken but completely in one piece. Reid was already screaming as he felt himself guided into his fate; the cold cement of the cell wall as bit into his cheek and then grated at his knees, Keller's sick affection, and the excruciating pain of it all. All he could do was lay there and move silently, defenselessly through his fate. _

_#-#-#-#-#-#  
_

As usual, Reid awoke choking and gasping for breath. His pillow and shirt collar had become wet with tears and to Reid's disappointment the room was still light. Reid couldn't stay in the room – it was too quiet. Reid quickly unpacked his bag and pulled on a change of clothes, tossed some water on his hair, ran a comb through it, and then headed out the door.

Stepping out of the main doors of the North Beach Hotel was like diving into a rushing river of confused but exuberant tourists, chattering locals hurrying on about their day, and burst of the occasional female face painted like a showgirl but dressed in a velour tracksuit and thong sandals – a lady on her way to one of the many Columbus Avenue strip clubs. Reid looked out into the crowd headed in all different directions and entertained the idea of heading back up to his room but the immediate chill that ran through him convinced him to take a deep breath and jump. The current of people picked Reid instantly and guided him in the direction away from the Bay and past a park that looked out onto the beautiful white spires of a church. Spencer found himself caught up in the motion of the crowd until he passed several large single-pained glass windows, each displaying colorful renditions of classic literature. In the windows above the store were not-so-covert political statements drawn in chalk. 'City Lights Bookstore', he read the title as he walked through the doorway and up a short, but steep, set of green stairs.

The store was lined with coffee colored bookshelves that seemed to go up to the ceiling – a dangerous prospect for a San Francisco bookstore, Reid mused. Spencer had neglected to notice a sign in the window for a book signing scheduled to take place in an hour. Reid squeezed his way through the crowd until he came upon a room that had been prepared for the event. Reid wanted to leave. He'd dealt with book signings for the last few weeks and he still had plenty more to go and was not in the mood to be in the midst of one during his few moments of freedom. In an attempt to get out of the shop after going down a flight of winding stairs and then up tow more flights of winding stairs Reid found himself, not outside, but in singularly empty room that could have appeared as an enchanted attic to the right mind. In the air hung scent of old books and sun-warmed air, the oxygen was thick and a little moist. The floors and bookshelves alike looked as if they were fashioned from wood as old as the city itself. The overtones of marijuana and incense hung about thinly a reminder of the former occupants of the building – some of the greatest and most rebellious minds the 1950s and '60s had to offer. Reid looked around at the shelves –all poetry –everything from the first Valentine's Day poem to Alan Ginsberg's Howl, the work that had been conceived in these very walls. Reid was already combing through the titles, searching out something familiar, he'd buy it and read it aloud every night before bed – maybe that would bring him some peace.

Spencer shuffled to the side once more, moving onto the next shelf when he felt something warm knock into the side of his intruding leg. Reid didn't pause to consider the source before clearing halfway across the room and groping for the gun he knew full well, he wasn't carrying. Immediately the source of unexpected warmth moved to his feet. There stood a man seemingly in his early thirties, hair shaved to stubble and a short goatee being the only hair visible, and easily clearing six feet in height. The unidentified man let the book drop to the floor as he put his up in a show of surrender. "Man, I'm sorry for startling you," and when Reid just stared at him incredulously, he continued, "I know it's kind of spooky up here, right?" Then he remembered and lowered his voice, moving slowly closer to Spencer so he didn't have to shout as the voice of the presenting author was now audible, "I came up here because it's quiet and, admit it, if Kerouac's ghost is going to be hanging out somewhere, don't you think it would be here?" Now the man sounded more like an excited boy talking about his favorite ballplayer than grown, seemingly rougher, man waxing philosophical about Kerouac's ghost. The older man suddenly looked down at his shoes, possibly embarrassed by his enthusiasm.

"Are you visiting the city?" Reid mimicked the other man's hushed tone, moving hesitantly closer when the other cocked his head the first time that he uttered the question causing Reid to repeat himself.

"No, not really visiting. I live Daly City but it's almost San Francisco – it's a short train ride into the city. How about you? You've got the style down pretty well if you are a tourist." He said looking Reid over; the Chuck Taylor Converse shoes, fitted slacks, a vest of the same color and a contrasting dress-shirt underneath – with sleeves rolled to the elbows, of course. Reid's hair had ended up as a happy accident as haircuts went and it left him with some length but still was manageable and generally good-looking. It was true though, Reid could have easily passed for a Silicon Valley wunderkind on shore leave.

"Thanks, but I'm not from here. I'm out here looking at colleges," Reid said not completely missing the possible inference.

"Lucky bastard!" The man hissed at Reid and then beaming at him with a million watt smile, "Good for you! I missed that chance. Enjoy every damn minute of it! What are you studying? Make me jealous a little." He said sincerely looking at Reid like he had stumbled on some rare artifact.

"Well-" Reid was cut off by a surly-looking hippie wearing dreadlocks and a sour expression, "You're taking away from the atmosphere that our artist-in-residence is trying to cultivate with her students." The young man said after catching both of their eyes.

"We're out of here – no worries," The gregarious stranger said grabbing at Reid's hand.

"Wait!" Reid cried out forgetting about the artist-in-residence and their failing atmosphere. A surge of chastising hushes followed the two men as they exited the bookstore and Reid found himself pulled quickly across a side-street no larger than alley. Next, Reid was pulled in the direction of a short steep set of stairs that this time led him into the back room of a bar - a bar that was smoky (despite California's ban on smoking in bars) and bathed in multi-colored light from the stained glass surrounding the bar, blocking out the view from the street.

"I've got to go back for that book," The insistent stranger said as he tossed his leather jacket into the wooden booth and slid in after it, "I'd gone there for it special and I'm not about to give it up that easily."

Reid's head was still swimming from the rapid change in location and allowing this stranger to pull him even further from a familiar path. "Are you a writer?"

The young man shook his head, "She said we should write if we want to understand what we read better but I don't really like it – mostly 'cause I never had to do it. Better things to do in high school, I guess. I was a stupid kid."

Reid just looked at the stranger still puzzled. Instead, he said the most dense thing possible, "I doubt that. You seem passionate about it now?"

"Yeah, I guess it's one of the better things that stuck." The stranger said looking down at his hands. Before Reid could respond a man came over and clapped his companion on the back "Mike fuckin' Peralta? Holy shit, dude! I didn't know they let you go? How the hell'd that happen?" Mike looked over at Reid apologetically.

"Allan! Good to see ya, man." Mike said, standing and throwing one arm around the other man's shoulder and muttering something in his ear that already had Reid wanting to bolt for the door. Rossi had left him for all of an evening and already he was in a mess.

Before Reid could follow his slippery thoughts to their conclusion, Allan had left them only to return with two drinks and a knowing nod to Mike.

"I'm Mike, by the way," He said looking slightly embarrassed and annoyed by the earlier display.

"Spencer," Reid said extending his hand across the table.

"You said you were looking at colleges," Mike said drawing Spencer's drink away from him. "How old _are_ you?

"Old enough to have run through college, graduate school, and a doctorate," Reid smiled playfully, drawing his drink back to him as Mike's eyes widened in shock.

"So whatcha checkin' out schools for? You an inspector or something? You go around make sure they're teaching it righ, huh Teach?" Mike flicked a sunflower seed that he'd pulled from his pocket at Reid.

"I'm on a recruitment tour for work." Reid tried his best to stay nonchalant.

"Cool," Mike said as if he'd already forgotten what had prompted that answer. "So do you like poetry or were you just lost?"

"My mom taught early poetry in college," Reid said looking into his drink, suddenly intimidated to meet Mike's gaze.

"Ah, so the vocation is in your blood – sweet. I'm afraid I'd be following those girls in those fuzzy track suits if I were to walk in my mom's footsteps." Mike said with a laugh.

"I'm sorry," Reid said because he never could find what the right response to that kind of childhood.

Mike laughed loudly again, taking a hearty sip of his drink, "Man, Spence! Now I remember why I like some classes, playin' with teachers can be a lot of fun," he said with another laugh, "Naw, my mom was a housewife that saw my brother and me off to school every day and cooked us dinner every night. I'm just fuckin' with you, Teach."

Spencer took a second polite sip from his drink and then scooted to the end of the booth, making ready to exit, "I should be going."

"Listen, Spence. I'm sorry." He said holding up his hands again, a mirror image of his first sighting in the bookstore. "I wasn't just saying it to say it. I really want you to tell me about school, your experience at school. I won't ever get to go so tell me about it." Mike's hand drifted across the table and reached for Reid who evaded him but Mike remained reaching emptily for him anyhow, "If you have to go, let me walk you home."

Reid let out a sigh and sat back in the booth. After weighing his options staying here, in this colorful bar, with a kind stranger was a much better alternative than the nightmares that awaited him on his pillow.

"I didn't have as much fun as you're imagining," Reid said taking a more serious sip of his drink and then forcing out a laugh of his own."I didn't exactly run with the popular crowd."

"Oh I did," Mike said quickly, "and their all a bunch of assholes. So forget about that and tell me about the best thing you've ever read." Mike said with another bright smile. Mike's lack of hair, solid build, and resonant voice should have been enough to conjure images of Keller but that man couldn't have been further from his mind at that point. At the moment he felt differently, for just a moment he allowed himself to entertain the fantasy of what it would have been like to have someone like this man by his side through the halls of his Las Vegas high school. Mike looked to be only a few years older than himself so the brief fantasy of senior Mike shielding him from the madding crowd was wonderfully endearing.

"The best ones," Reid said moving forward conspiratorially, "are read to you." Reid then felt the need to qualify that, "Or at least that's what my mom always used to say."

"I think you're right, Spencer." Mike said smiling after a long swallow of his refilled drink, "that's how I heard some of the best of them. When I wasn't ready to read them she'd bring me the tapes of someone else reading them. Do you listen to those? Books on tape?" Then Michael looked down at his drink, "then again, you don't need to, huh?"

"Sometimes it's the experience of having it read to you not the words itself," Reid said with a bit of kind diplomacy, then his tone shifted into another enticement. "Then again, maybe there is a voice in _your_ head that sounds like Jeremy Irons when you're reading Lolita but not I, and it is something of an experience," Reid said again with that air of conspiracy and a smile. Michael's voice wasn't a dead ringer for the British actor but the depth and rasp where almost the same. Then Reid retreated, worried that his innuendo had been less than subtle.

"I'll have to remember that the next time I'm looking. I'd heard about the book but I'd never read it." Mike said earnestly, "Did you read that in school?"

Reid laughed and shook his head. "It's one of those books that you learn about on your own or through other sources," Reid smiled. "It sounds like you've attended classes recently, who recommended those books to you?"

"Oh," Mike said, looking away, "Yeah, trade school, sort of. I had a teacher that was really cool and she'd lend me books outside of class. She worked with me on reading as well. And no, it's not like it sounds either. She's married." He added almost as an afterthought.

"What was the first book she let you borrow?" He asked.

Mike's brow suddenly darkened as if he'd been challenged. Reid looked at him quizzically. Mike leaned over the table, "Swear you won't laugh. I mean, damn, for all I know you were probably one of those Matrix child prodigy types. Swear you won't laugh."

Any twinge of intimidation Reid may have felt, fell away like gossamer threads and was replaced with a kind of mourning, "We all began at the beginning. I wouldn't ever laugh at that kind of thing." Reid said passionately, his voice rising a little, "I don't like to think that you've been subject to that kind of cruelty too." Before Reid could stop himself, almost like he was back in his dream – along for the ride in his own body and powerless to stop the progression, Reid stretched his hand across the table and placed it atop Michael's toughened knuckles. Reid didn't know what to think when Mike reached out and enveloped Reid's fingertips with his own, "We've all been subject to some kind of cruelty, right?" Mike smiled and squeezed Reid's hand and breaking out in that bright smile added, "So will you let me walk you home?"

But when Mike felt Reid's hesitation, he loosened his grasp on Reid's hand, and backed away as Reid's complexion lightened and he appeared almost ashen in the dim light. "I'm sorry," He said looking straight into Reid's eyes, "I thought we were on the same page, Spencer."

Reid took another swallow of his drink, going as long as possible before he had to meet Mike's gaze, "No," Reid blushed as he spoke, "You didn't misunderstand me, but I don't want to go back there, not yet."

Michael rose from the bench, dragging his leather jacket out behind him. He walked to Reid's side of the bench and held out his hand, "I can get you so far above everything you'll forget their ever were problems."

Reid knew he should leave behind something, anything to tell whoever cared, where he had gone. Then a stronger part of him was defiant, yelling that he'd voluntarily spent a week behind bars with Keller, could there ever be a situation more dangerous, more disquieting then that? Reid reached out and took Michael's hand and allowed himself once again to be led blindly at the whim of the other man. As they walked down another alley-like street Reid began to worry when Mike turned to him suddenly and grasped him by the shoulders, the same glistening smile reassuring the younger man, as Michael drew him closer. Michael released his hold grasp on Reid except for a warm, guiding hand on the back of Reid's neck, "You're safe with me, Spencer. I want to forget as much as you do. Trust me to get us out of here?" As Mike spoke he moved closer, teasingly close to Reid's lips when he whispered, "You tell me about what I'll never read and I'll show you what you'll never find in your classrooms," Mike nuzzled Reid's neck and murmured a request so low that it practically made Reid's chest shiver with vibrations, "Let go, Spencer. Trust me," Reid let out a long-held breath and rested his forehead on Michael's shoulder and allowed the other man to guide him a few steps forward and then turned to reveal a gleaming black and steal motorcycle.

Michael opened his first saddlebag and pulled out a jacket and helmet and then opened the second saddlebag to reveal another single helmet. Before putting on his own helmet, Mike walked up to Reid and gently slung the leather jacket around his shoulders, "Trust me to take you out of that over-sized head of yours," he said kissing Reid's forehead. "Look at me, Spencer." Mike said gently, trying to bring Reid's eyes away from his hands as he zipped the jacket around Reid.

Reid walked over to the hulking piece of steel and taking the older man's hand, slung his leg over the other side. Then Michael leaned the bike toward him and he was on in front of Spencer. Michael leaned back before starting the engine, "So what's the verdict, professor?"

Reid wrapped his arms around the warm man in front of him, "Get me out of here."

The machine rumbled beneath them, a sharp snap of the kickstand, and they were off. Reid leaned back, unsure of where to put his hands, groping for a place to grasp onto behind him but when he found nothing he instinctively went for the most obvious option, around Michael's waist. Reid was feeling assured of his decision until suddenly they both leaned to the side and turned onto the steepest hill Reid had ever seen. The motorcycle grumbled and gave a few belligerent jerks before ascending the hill in a smooth charge. It was when they reach the crest of the hill that Reid began to think that the alternative to forgetting may not be worth it. The potential descent made his palms sweat just considering it and he dug his hands into the worn leather of the Mike's jacket. If timed correctly on the descent, a vehicle could move through each intersection without stopping until well after the bottom of the hill. The light changed and before taking off, Mike took a hand of the handlebar and gave Reid's white-knuckled hand a firm squeeze. Before Reid could fully absorb the contact he felt his stomach drop as they soared down the hill. They sailed past rows of Victorian-style homes that seemed like they were on such a slant that they were practically built on their sides. Each intersection they crossed caused the motorcycle to lurch forward as if it was threatening to leave them behind – Reid tried not to panic the second time he came up out of his seat and for a moment, putting distance between he and the bike.

After one last hair-raising intersection they turned onto a busy street that led them into dense Cyprus trees and the cool smell of grass and fog – Golden Gate Park. Michael turned them into the park and followed a paved road into the fog and the sweet smell of sea air. After a few short twists and turns they emerged from the park and went up the highway with the consuming fog enveloping them and the veiled roar of the Pacific Ocean to their left.

They began to approach another dense gathering of Cypress trees and an equally menacing hill. This ascent was easier, Reid was becoming accustomed to the movements and they were almost second nature. After a few zigs and zags around two very narrow bends in the road, they approached a vista point, barely illuminated by the remnants of light left by the newly set sun. Once Mike had killed the engine, and worked to loosen Reid's grip on his middle, Reid swung his leg clumsily behind himself in his best attempt to dismount the motorcycle. Through sheer luck, Reid came back on both feet solidly and stood there using all of his energy to stop his legs from shaking. Mike came to his own feet effortlessly and immediately began to unfasten his helmet and remove the knit cap he was wearing underneath. Michael scratched at his head and then in a show refocusing, shook his head and turned to face Spencer. "How ya holdin' up, professor?"

Reid crossed his arms around himself in an attempt to find some sort of steadiness. He could feel the color drain from his face and his lips become as ashen as the fog with the last thing Michael had said. This was déjà vu of the worst kind.

"Well, that answers it," Mike moved closer and Reid flinched when he took the helmet from his hands, "Easy there, Spencer," Mike said as he popped the lid on one of his saddlebags – stowing their helmets inside. Mike pulled a blanket from the other and looked up at Reid with a look of soft reassurance, "Do you hear that?"

Reid looked at him with a look of incredulous frustration. _That question does nothing for my ability to feel safer at the moment._ Reid resisted the urge to vocalize it, instead just shaking his head in denial.

"Exactly," Mike said, putting the half folded blanket around Reid's shoulders and walked him over to yet another seemingly steep path. Reid walked it without question until they came to a turnout with a wooden bench and a small empty patch of grass on red clay dirt – a turnout that overlooked one of the most beautifully desolate locations Reid had ever seen. Michael stepped up behind him and Reid sighed at the warmth and welcomed relief from the bone-chilling wind.

Mike wrapped his arms around the younger man, "They call this 'Land's End' and I think it's pretty right on, don't you? It's like some mythical gateway or something," Mike's voice had grown low and rich with sincerity and then he caught himself and turned from Reid with a cough, "It feels like that to me anyhow, after being surrounded with concrete all day, every day, for so long. I bet as a teacher you know what I mean, "Mike said rapidly, almost like he was embarrassed again at his gentle musings.

Reid took in a deep breath of the cool misty blanket that enclosed the point; leaving a small piece of visible ocean directly below the vista and the sight of a lone back rock, close to shore, that was being battered by the angry blue waves, "I'm not used to being outdoors in a remote place like this and not feeling a sense of dread." Reid said matter-of-factly, wishing immediately he could take it back.

Mike missed the allusion, instead drawing Reid back against him and kissing his cheek, "No need to be nervous, you're not alone out here."

Reid was able to suppress the urge to tell him that in his actual line of work being with someone in a remote location was usually a precursor to the standard horror he dealt in, it most certainly was not a means of assuaging alarm. Spencer continued to shiver and the intensified when Michael turned Reid in his arms to face him. "I know that look," Mike said in a tone of genuine caring, "I won't ever ask you to talk about it but I can handle it if you need to talk about it."

Spencer cocked his head quizzically at the older man. Lately, like after Marshall Parish, Reid had become accustomed to the vague pleasure of laugh in someone's face or cutting them up verbally when they attempted some weak platitude of pity. There was something about Michael's absolute self-assured sincerity that made Reid resist the urge to push him away. Reid combed through his brain trying to find the words for Michael and when he saw that Michael's face was slowly beginning to darken with worry, Reid knew it was time to abandon the search. Reid rested his hand next to Michael's and found it take up without hesitation. Spencer took one last of sip of the moist air before reaching toward Mike and clumsily placing a quick kiss to his lips. Spencer could feel the other man's hand at the back of his head as Michael smile spread out against Reid's lips and a chuckle in the back of Michael's throat resonating into the lingering kiss that the older man tried to entice Reid into moving into deeper.

Spencer fought the urge to panic. He tried to remind himself of all of the generic people he saw on the street every day; couples, singles, and a mix of any combination and none of them would be standing where he was now and waiting to be maimed or murdered. Finally, Reid pulled back fully intent on asking Michael to follow through with his promise and take him safely home. Then Michael removed the blanket from Reid's shoulders and spread it out on the small patch of grass next to them. Michael sat down, not looking at Reid, keeping his focus on the darkening view and the chill of the fog.

Reid wanted to sit down. He didn't want to acknowledge that maybe Michael's words did mean something. Reid wondered if he wore what Keller had done to him so plainly. He wanted to go home. "I can't…"Reid began but became silent when Michael stood.

"You want to head back downtown?" Michael said extending his hand but not yet moving to pick up the blanket.

Reid was becoming flushed and fidgety, if he'd not been out in the middle of nowhere, he would have already gone somewhere, anywhere he didn't have to face up the memories that were threatening to creep in even in this most remote location.

"Please?" Reid had intended for a stronger response, anything other than that pathetic phrase that sent him right back to the cold concrete of Keller's cell and the overwhelming pain.

"Spencer," Mike said, lowering his voice and walking toward Reid, "Spencer, it's okay. I'm not angry." Michael caught Reid's elbow and guided him back into an embrace. "You're safe with me," he kissed Reid's forehead as if to impress the point on the young man even further. Michael pulled the blanket from the ground and balled it into a semi-organized sphere, tucking it under one arm, he took Reid's hand with his other and brought the back of it to his lips. "Home it is."

Michael guided them on a gentler path than the one that had gotten them to Land's End and before Reid knew it they had arrived at his hotel. This time Michael hopped off the bike first and helped to pull the nearly sleepwalking Spencer from the bike. The cold fog and the closeness of another warm body had worked it magic on Reid's long-suffering exhaustion and he was ready to fall into sleep. "Think you can make it up there without falling asleep in the stairwell," Mike whispered in Spencer's ear as he supported the younger man on his feet. Spencer lolled his head against Michael's shoulder.

"This won't last," Spencer whined tiredly into Michael's shoulder, "I don't sleep. He'll never have to worry about sleep again and I guess, I don't either," Reid said in a tone of punch-drunk ruefulness.

"Good night, Spencer." Michael said, pulling the young man upright and kissing him softly one last time before letting him move under his own steam.

"I wish you could stay," Reid said absently, as if the decision was not his, "Good night." Reid walked through the door Michael had held open for him and made his way to his room, weakly hoping that the spell of Land's End would continue guide him toward a peaceful sleep.

#-#-#-#-#-#

An ear-piercing shriek cut through the dark, foggy night. "Alejandro, you're an asshole!" The blonde with the dripping make-up yelled out before her feet came out from under her and she took to a piece of cardboard and began careening down a cement 'slide' that had been created on the side of one of the steeper hills in the Castro District.

"That's 'cause you're a pussy, Trish!" The thin dark-haired young man yelled at the girl with the dripping make-up who now lay at the bottom of the hill in the throes of a drunken giggle fit.

"Isn't that like, uh, the fag calling the kettle…or whatever the hell the phrase is?" She shouted out in between bursts of giggles.

"Fuck you!" The thin college-age kid in dirtied club clothes yelled before snatching up a piece of cardboard and blasting his own way down the cement slide to join his friend at the bottom.

They laid there giggling and staring up at the fog-veiled stars. "You were right," Trish said in a breathless voice of elation, "playgrounds are much better now that we can drink," She paused, hearing what she'd said and then began giggling hysterically again. Alejandro stood and extended a hand to the girl on the ground, "One more before we head back to the Muni and then to State?" When Trish shook her head, beginning to look a little green around the gills, Alejandro bolted up the hill calling over his shoulder, "You're a lush, you know that, right?"

"Fuck you," Trish mumbled as her eyes began to close as the waves of nausea from the second big blue drink hit her brain. "You're the baby," she slurred as she looked up at the figure that had appeared above her. "You done?" She cocked her head, looking up from the ground, frowning a little when she felt the roughness of the dirt that had worked its way into her hair.

When the shadow above her didn't answer she struggled to get up, "Can we go back –"

Two gun shots rang out and ear-piercing shrieks once again cut through the foggy sky, only to be silenced moments later.

**A/N:** **Friends, I have returned! Yay! It's summer break and so I have some time to indulge in all things fantasy. This story has been floating around in my brain for the last couple of months and I'm hoping it comes across as well as it has been dancing around upstairs ;) I look forward to your thoughts on the new character (like him? hate him? don't trust him?). Okay, well that's all for now. Thanks for taking the time to consider my work once again. **


	2. Back from the Edge

**Warning: Poor proofing, offensive (and occasionally profane) language, and uncharacteristic sweetness from the author. **

_There was a shrill, metallic hum that pierced even the loudest of thoughts. The hum combined with the bright lights had him squinting. A frantic look from side to side, revealed soft tan cuffs on either side of Reid's wrists. Reid began to writhe as the pain in his head intensified. _

"_We'll take good care of him," Spencer could see his mother standing in the doorway, looking in on sympathetically, apologetically, as Reid screamed for her._

_The lights grew brighter until she disappeared. _

_Reid shivered, he was so cold. He could see a soft gray light coming from behind where he lay, the light cast a long shadow from his bed to the wall in front of him. Everything was that color of sterile, muddy gray – even the concrete walls had been painted to match that dulling color. Spencer's turned his eyes lazily to the side of his bed. No, Reid thought, that was a dream. Yet there they were, the tan cuffs that held either of his arms securely at the side of the gurney. Reid shook his feet and found the same result – locked._

"_They're not goin' to take those off, you know?" Reid could smell him before he could see him – cheap yet enticing cologne. _

_There he was with that same cocky grin on his face, hair as it was before he'd shorn it himself, and his very distinctive tattoo now concealed by a charcoal-gray suit. Reid stared at him until his eyes felt dry and Keller broke out into a wide smile. _

"_I'd ask you to scoot over but, I think Dr. Nathan's made good and I'm sure that ain't happenin' any time soon." Keller just smiled as Reid squirmed, constantly fighting to keep his eyes trained on Keller, even though he couldn't stand to see him. _

"_You can't be here," Reid stuttered in disbelief. "This isn't happening," Reid mumbled, sometimes he could keep a handle on his thinking. It really worked, by the way, repeating over and over, 'it's only a dream. This is only a dream.' Not this time. The only thought, the thought that marched through all others, was the knowledge that tomorrow, he was going to die._

_Keller's voice grew soft, mimicking Reid's innocent timbre, "I can't let you do this alone."_

_Reid's headache had returned with a vengeance and his head began to thrash on the gurney. Suddenly, Reid was pulled from his reverie of pain and he froze, the searing presence of Keller's hand on his hand, "We still have another day before…"Keller's hand squeezed Reid's tightly. _

"_Before what?" Reid cried out, trying to pull from Keller's grasp. "This isn't happening."_

"_I'm sure that's what Tobias thought when you shot him." Keller said, pulling back from Reid and looking at him critically, "Admit it, you don't think schizophrenia is curable," Keller moved closer, taking advantage of Reid's trapped limbs, kneeling over the young man, one leg trapped between Keller's knees. Keller leaned closer and whispered, the words brushing, warm over Reid's face, "You had the opportunity to end his pain. Put him outta his misery - just like you ended your mother's pain - is that why you killed Tobias? You put a bullet in his brain because he reminded you of how guilty you really are?" Keller rested his forehead against Reid's and Reid could hear the soft crinkling of Keller's suit adjusting to his movements over Reid._

"_You can't do this to me," Reid whined, struggling earnestly as he felt the weight of the man above him come to rest over him, "P-please," Reid stumbled over the word. Reid sputtered and squirmed as the cloth barriers of Keller's suit and Reid's prison-issue hospital gown melted away. As Keller's torments continued, Reid's eye caught the sight of his hand, still bound by the tan cuff, but with his fingers intertwined with the older man. Keller opened his mouth to speak and Reid cut him off, staring at him with a rage-filled intensity, "I can't fuckin' relax when I know what's waiting for me," Reid spat angrily at the face of the older man, still hovering over him. The weight of the other man was gone and now there was just pressure stretched out over his arms, legs, and chest. Black bands - bands holding him tight to this table that held him out, just like that tattoo on the shoulder of the suit-clad Chris Keller. "Do you have any final words, Spencer?"_

_The low voice, with the East Coast tinge, purred into his ear, "Relax, Dr. Reid." Spencer could feel the sharp sting in the tender crease at the inside of his elbow. "It does hurt less if you relax, Spencer." _

_As the metal slid into Reid's skin and he felt the poisonous sting of the end, entering his blood. He let out a guttural scream that seemed to come straight from his core. However, as if being smothered simultaneously, the sound was swallowed inside the hollows of Keller's mouth as it enveloped Reid's lips. _

#-#-#-#-#

Reid was on his feet before his eyes were even fully open; he darted to the suite's restroom, letting out a small sigh of relief when he made it in just enough time to be sick, and releasing the contents of his stomach into the porcelain receptacle. When his sickness died down, he groped for the nearest towel, and after drying his face of the sweat and tears that had flowed unbidden during his fit, Reid sat back resting his head against the bathroom wall. Reid stared around the room, the smell of sickness still lingering.

Once Spencer had calmed his nerves and washed sense of his sickness from his face and mouth, he stood staring at himself in the mirror; the circles under his eyes couldn't get any deeper and his skin was becoming sickly looking as well. Two critical thoughts about his deathly appearance and it didn't take long before his mind was on the path to Michael. _What was wrong with him that he would be interested in someone like this? What kind of man grabs up a man that looks like this, from a bookstore poetry-attic, and then drags him off to the middle of nowhere? Did he think I was holding? Was he picking me up for drugs? He didn't ask me for any..anything?_

Reid stopped and shook his head. In truth, he didn't really care. When he did find himself balking at the idea, he'd shake his head ironically; _really, how bad could it turn out? _ For a kid who'd joined the BAU and was still reluctant to shake hands with his new boss to…well, so much for that. That bridge had been crossed, a few times over, and why shouldn't he have a say in at least the next transgression. If it ended badly this time, at least it was his choice. No, Reid thought, that's not what happened and you know it. You begged. You offered. Everything but that blow to your face, you asked for – you begged for. Reid could feel the tension build as he looked in the mirror.

Reid backed up, until his back hit the wall and he let out a sharp gasp of surprise, then immediately paused and shook his head feeling utterly pathetic and defeated. Spencer allowed himself to slide tiredly down the wall and coming to rest back on the cool tile floor. _Thirty isn't that far off. The time is getting shorter. So many people respect you now, do you think they'll even remember if you go into the hospital one of these days and never come out? They will forget. They will forget, just like Gideon happily let the idea of your existence go. _Tears began to slowly fall from the tired, young man's eyes, as if he were hearing news of a terminal diagnosis over which he had no control. _You won't have to be afraid, to be anxious, if you decide. You decide, so they can never forget you._

Every muscle in Spencer Reid's body shook as he brought himself to a standing position, avoiding the view of the mirror like it would strike him if he were to catch sight of it. Reid walked to the bedroom and changed into the first shirt, pants, and shoes that he could find and headed out the door. The doorman was gone and Reid stepped away from the hotel this time with a sense of determination rather than fear. He couldn't stay indoors. That idea, that fearful sentence, lay indoors and it had Reid walking quickly in the opposite direction of City Lights Books and toward the dawn haze of fog and blue of the Bay. As Reid walked down toward the water, he watched as the boats and fishermen filtered into the wharfs, docked, and began to unload their haul. As he passed the red brick buildings and heard the sound of a cable car bell in the distance, Reid felt like he'd fallen into a completely different era. The whimsy instantly broken when a girl in disheveled make-up and a velour tracksuit pushed past him – knocking her square make-up and costume cast into his knee.

"Sorry," She called over her shoulder as she rushed across the up-coming intersection and then onto a bus that was just moments from departing.

_There was no escaping, no matter the era….unless, you were willing to harness your own departure._

With a sigh of exasperation, Reid turned and began his ascent back up the deceptively steep hill. Back to the hotel. Time to focus on work – time to focus on trying to convince other hapless and bright kids to take this on.

#-#-#-#-#

After stopping by the City College's criminal psychology class, they then made their way to a private Jesuit university, in an area not unlike the one Reid had seen last night. It wasn't until after they had left the large lecture hall and embarked down the hill that Reid felt a lump settle in his throat. There it was, the Cypress-lined Park that they'd flown through not so long ago. Reid stood transfixed on the view, lost in the longing for the feeling of peace and safety that had lasted for that all-too-short moment.

David Rossi had been watching the younger man throughout their journey across country and Reid had most definitely hit his lowest point-to-date. Rossi had gone by the younger man's room the night before and Reid hadn't bothered to open the door. Rossi hoped that he'd gotten his hands on something to help him sleep. Rossi approached the younger man cautiously, "Reid," he said coming to stand at the younger man's side, making sure not to initiate any sort of contact, "did you get some rest yesterday-" Reid whipped his head in Rossi's direction ready to flay him on the spot before the older man uttered the next few words, "-I came by your room – knocked a few times, and no answers – so I thought you might have gotten some rest."

Reid fidgeted and then shook it off to fire a curt look back at Rossi, "Stop trying to assuage your guilt. Your concern is kind of late."

He turned on his heel, putting the Park and the memories behind him, and headed toward the car, "You think that by pushing me away that I won't catch on to how bad it's gotten. If you start acting like a prick I'll leave you alone to waste away into your insomnia and fear, is that what you want?" Rossi had caught up to the young profiler by now and they were headed the last few yards to the car in quick sync with each other.

"Does this make you feel slightly better for patting Hotch on the back while he moaned about how _bad he felt_ about what happened with Keller? I've never known you to find minimal effort after the fact acceptable, Dave – what's changed?"

Rossi took a deep breath, opened the car door, and climbed inside – taking special care not to slam the door or give Reid any other kind of charged response. That tactic always infuriated his third wife when they'd argue. She'd scream at him that he was playing it artificially cool just to piss her off – to deny her emotional validation, she said her shrink called it. Reid didn't seem to be any different because when he got in the car he turned to Dave, "Playing it cool while watching me fall to ruin, that's not a new tactic though – is it?"

"Reid, why aren't you sleeping?" Rossi said coolly.

"I'm not talking about that." Reid said looking away from the older man.

"That night after our drink," Rossi continued as if Reid had added something meaningful to the conversation. "You said that you thought I would insist on staying even though you'd asked me to leave. Reid, are you afraid to be around us now?"

Reid's face contorted into a mask of disparagement, directly aimed at Rossi. "You've got to be kidding me!" Reid chirped, the pitch of his voice betraying his true feelings yet again. Reid held up a hand, aware of his admission, "it-" he felt the sudden need to gulp for oxygen, which felt in short supply inside the small sedan. "I-I it's not fear," Reid looked down at his hands for a long moment as he collected his thoughts. He waited for Rossi to inject something cruel, mocking Reid's weakness cloaked in defiance. Keller was especially present somehow when Rossi spoke, maybe it was the vernacular - Rossi wasn't weighed down by the rigidity of bureaucratic speech like Hotch was. Rossi wrote for the masses and so he spoke plainly but from a place of intelligence. Keller spoke plainly (and slightly fractured, at times) and intuited his schemes – they came to Keller through nature. Rossi spoke plainly but was not easily played for a fool and that often came off as arrogance. Reid did not enjoy being vulnerable, and least of all, in front of someone like David Rossi. So he fought the tears burning in the back of his eyes and resisted the urge to bring his hands to his face, "It's that I see his potential everywhere. That's why I feel resigned. It's going to happen – I see it everywhere – I can't escape it."

"Then he wins," Rossi said simply.

"I resigned myself to that fact at some point when he was inside of me." Reid forced out before clenching his eyes shut.

Rossi knew better than to reach over to comfort Reid, so he kept his hands on the steering wheel and eyes straight ahead. Rossi rolled down the car windows, letting the noise of the city wash out the sounds of Spencer's stifled anguish. He wanted to do something to pull the kid back from the precipice he seemed to be entertaining. The same technique he had successfully employed with Hotch would be no use here – he would not walk Spencer out onto the bridge and tell him that he should jump. Baiting Hotch with such dramatics was fitting of the older man's silent self- inflicted mortification, Rossi wasn't entirely sure that Spencer wouldn't actually take him up on the offer.

The rest of the ride back to the hotel went by in relative silence; Spencer fighting a panic attack and Rossi wracking his brain to try and find a reasonable solution to Reid's lack of sleep.

When Reid got out of the car and set out in the opposite direction of the hotel Rossi didn't try to stop him. Hotch sent Spencer on this trip to gain some space and perspective, and Keller or no, Reid had never done much independent travel as an adult – the City would find the right salve for his wound, Rossi hoped.

#-#-#-#-#

Spencer walked with purpose up Columbus St. not sure; why he was going so quickly, how he knew Mike would be there, or why he even wanted to see him after the strange conversation with Rossi. Reid did know that Mike was the first person to get him to forget about the horrors he was supposed to be escaping all this way across the country.

City Lights wasn't as crowded this time and thankfully, a new clerk was on duty this time so he didn't have to suffer any added humiliation for the possible recognition. Spencer went down the first set of spiral stairs, casually searching through the stacks of social science books and autobiographies. Reid made it through the small cave-like room crowded with folk and rock n' roll books and was lined with various cultural icons and counter-culture heroes. Reid scanned the titles, delaying more than he needed to but he wanted to keep up the appearance of happenstance - why that was so important, Reid couldn't exactly say.

"You're full of surprises," a welcome voice rasped in Spencer's ear, "let me guess, jazz percussion." Mike gestured at the book underneath Reid's hand – a loyal disciple's autobiography on the evolution of John Bohnam's technique and style.

Reid's eyes went to Michael's hand held out in front of him. "I am losing it, aren't I?" Reid said partially in jest as he reached out and pressed a finger into the top of Michael's hand.

"Spencer?" Mike's gravelly voice seemed especially intense in the small alcove, "C'mon Spencer, look at me." He whispered, his voice resounding and rich with concerned intensity.

Reid turned, trying to resist contact, feeling his heart beginning to hammer as the similarities of the circumstances began racking up in his mind. Spencer kept his eyes downcast. He'd already been told several times how his lack of rest was wearing on his face, "Please, back up."

"Okay," Mike held hands out from Spencer's body and took a step back until the chest-high bookshelf knocked into his shoulder blades. Mike paused a moment looking Spencer over as he fidgeted nervously, stopped abruptly, and then looked up at Michael with a mask of terror threatening to over-take his visage.

When Reid's eyes darted back to the floor and his lip began to shake, Michael spoke, "I've been having this problem and I think you might be able to help me."

Reid's eyebrows knitted together and he looked up at Mike for the odd statement, skipping the urge to move straight to innuendo, "What's wrong?"

"I can't stop thinking about you," He said with frightening sincerity.

Reid was ready with a quip but Michael continued, "It's a problem because usually when I have someone on my mind this much, I have a way to see them, hear their voice even? I want to make a fool of myself a little, Spencer. I want to call you and leave you long messages filled with silly, pointless questions – really, just to say anything that has you calling back with the answers, so I can hear your voice."

"In my line of work people like you don't exist," Reid said looking almost angry at Michael's sincerity.

"Likewise, Spencer, so aren't you glad we didn't meet under those circumstances," Mike said like he was putting an end to the conversation. He looked at Reid as if he'd been dropped in on an entirely different conversation, "What part of the city would you like to see today?"

Reid just shook his head, still refusing to meet Michael's face for more than moments at a time. "Mike, I'm leaving in a few days. This isn't happening."

"Which one is it?" Michael asked, still sounding like he was in conversation with another, separate entity.

"What?" Reid said lowering his voice and moving a little closer when Michael's voice dropped.

"Which drug is it? I've helped guys come off pretty much everything - cold turkey – so which one is it?" Michael said in an intense hush.

"I'm not on drugs," Reid said plainly, "I've been sober for awhile now. I've thought about going back if it meant that I could get some sleep. It always gave me the most vivid dreams, and that I do not need." Reid said, ending on a note that sounded more like a flavor critique than a confession.

"You can't sleep?" Michael nodded with understanding, "How long has it been?"

"Days, maybe," Reid shrugged, "I think it's been months since I've gotten a full night's sleep." Reid studied the bookshelf nearby, hoping that it could somehow distract from the pathetic nature of that statement.

"Is your hotel noisy? " Again, Michael sounded as if he'd missed the last piece of the conversation.

"Not particularly," Reid said, turning toward the books that had been in his eye-line, shutting Michael out of view.

"Is your coworker noisy?" Mike said, almost too quickly.

"You can do better than that," Reid groaned, "Should I even give you that information with that kind of sloppy attempt at concealment?"

"What do you think you've caught me at, Spencer?" Mike arched an eyebrow and moved a little closer.

"You want to know if I am staying with anyone," Reid accused.

"Since you've mentioned it-" Mike let out a loud boom of laughter and then quickly clapped his hand over his mouth and looked over at Reid mischievously, "I'm going to have the library hacks on us again," Mike smiled and wondered if that phrase had been better unheard.

"I'm not running anywhere," Reid said tiredly.

"Walk me to your place?" Mike held up his hands innocently, "If I can't get you to sleep and stay asleep, in a half hour, then you can throw me out, deal?"

#-#-#-#-#

Spencer didn't say another word until he had closed the door on his hotel suite and tried to fully absorb the sight of Michael in this context. "Will you leave if I fall asleep?" Spencer's question wavered more than he would have liked.

"Don't worry about that, Spence. I just want you to relax," Mike's voice became low and rich, "you have my promise, Spence. I won't even so much as put a toe out of line. Do I have your permission to touch you?"

Reid didn't answer, just held out his hand as Michael approached him, and they moved closer to the large bed in the middle of the room.

Michael took Reid's hand and pulled him close as they walked toward the bed, "Figures," he whispered against Reid's ear, "that you live in those thin sweaters of yours."

Reid shook his head, "No," Reid said sitting down on the bed, "I can't, not yet."

Michael nodded in understanding and then looked toward Reid's white and black high-top shoes. Reid sat down on the bed and began to unlace and remove his shoes.

Mike sat down on the bed next to Reid, "Lay down," he said, still looking on Reid with an air of clarity, as if he was determined to solve Reid's problem.

Spencer wanted to seem relaxed but with someone so close, as he lay prone on a bed, was too close to memories he'd rather forget. Michael's boots hit the ground with a clunk of leather and thick-soled heels, and he moved in behind the young man on his side. Somehow, Michael managed, with a few small movements, to wrap his arms around Reid – one arm under his head and the other around Reid's waist. Michael kissed the young man's neck once as he began to squirm, trying to fit into the space.

Reid stopped and then took in a few shaking, shallow breathes and began to move again. The next breath the young man released sounded wet and thick with emotion, "I should-I should get up." Reid said beginning to move.

Michael's arms went slack, "Spencer, try to rest."

"You should go," Spencer whimpered but made no move to put space between him and Michael. He could feel the tension in Reid's body as he shook, fighting to stay in place and to not completely give into his feelings of panic.

"I will," Michael whispered against Reid's neck, "once you close those eyes and begin to erase those dark circles under your eyes."

Spencer let out a wet sob of a breath and tried again to squirm away, worried this time that he would leave evidence of his grief behind on Michael's shirt-sleeve.

Michael held him close and began to rub small, soft circles on Spencer's back, "I'll be here if it comes back. I'll wake you. We won't let it get that bad." Michael purred in the younger man's ear, still rubbing in soft, mesmerizing circles.

Reid closed his eyes and shifted into the warmth of the other man, breathing in a deep sigh of mint, tobacco, and the lingering scent of leather that clung to his clothes even though his jacket was nowhere in sight. That scent wasn't too far from the taste and feel of cold, salty fog wrapping around his body. Michael seemed to be reading his mind because as he imagined flying back through the park, Michael began to describe their journey in a rumbling whisper.

Reid followed Michael's words, allowing the images to pull him further and further away from the hotel room and into the realm of sweet, cool emptiness.

#-#-#-#-#

_Spencer stood looking out at the desolate gray sea. The next thing he noticed was the heavy, cumbersomeness of fingerless leather gloves and a heavy jacket on his back. He turned to face a noise in the distance and then stood staring curiously at the figure next to him; those worn work boots, gray cargo pants, the hint of navy blue waffle-knit thermal underneath his leather jacket, and those calloused hands that worked deftly on the strap of his full face helmet. Before the helmet could come off the figure headed toward Reid and the young man was frozen, unable to protest or escape. _

"_When I said I wanted to see you out of harm's way, this isn't what I had in mind," Off came the helmet and revealed those ice-blue eyes and hawk-like predatory gaze. "Road rash wouldn't do that perfect face of yours any favors," Keller took a step forward, cupping Reid's cheek in his hand. Keller caressed his cheek and then slid his hand smoothly to the back of Reid's neck and pulled him forward into a slow and penetrating kiss. _

_Keller pulled back, his eyes sparkling with hunger as Reid continued to look at him pliantly, "Do you want to see him?" Keller whispered in Reid's ear, using a jerk of his head to turn Reid's focus to the trail. Keller nipped at Reid's earlobe as he added, "You gotta promise that you don't get jealous."_

_As Keller led him, as if Reid was some sort of puppet, through the brush and trees, going off the trail of the park. "He felt so good but, he wasn't a substitute for you."_

_Reid didn't want to – he really didn't want to- but he looked down. It looked nothing like the photo he'd seen before – this was different. The man covered in dirt and leaves was not Bryce Tibbots and this was not some East Coast dump site. Reid was surrounded by the smell of Cypress trees and stale booze. Reid tried to dart forward but Chris caught him by the collar, "I want to hear you beg for me again." _

#-#-#-#-#

"Spencer, sssh, you're safe, it isn't real." Michael's hand was rubbing gentle circles on Reid's chest that seemed to be rising and falling out of control.

"I'm sorry," Reid whimpered, still reluctant to open his eyes.

Michael hummed deeply in agreement and continued to place soothingly soft touches in places that had Reid sighing deeply and turning in Michael's arms to face him. Nuzzled into the older man's chest, Reid looked up at him feeling embarrassed for his well-exposed neediness, "Tell me about that first book you mentioned?"

Michael gave a little laugh and ran his free hand through Reid's hair, "It was about someone who had the power to do what I wish I could do for you."

Reid looked up him with an incredulously cocked eyebrow. Michael kissed his forehead but didn't lift his head from resting atop Spencer's, and Reid could feel the vibrations of his voice against his skin, "It's about a boy," Michael began, "the whole world is hidden from him until he becomse an apprentice to this old man. The old man has this power to transfer memories to the boy."

Reid sighed into the older man's chest, wishing that someone could take his memories from him. Michael's hand that embraced Reid began to rub warm circles on his back as the melodic, rumble of the plot continued to spill from his lips, "He has the boy lay down on this cot in this empty room. He places his bare hands on the boy's skin and he's able to give him memories that he experiences so deeply that he actually comes out with evidence of the memory."

Reid sighed again and relaxed into Michael's arms, "The first thing the boy sees is the memory of this beach with water as clear as glass and blue like the sky. The boy lays on the warm, white sand and listens to the hiss of the sea and the crash of the waves on the shore," Reid was breathing evenly now, burrowed closely into Michael's chest.

"I wish I had that memory to give you, Spencer," Michael kissed Reid's forehead and accepted his peace as a sign that it was safe for him to close his eyes as well.

#-#-#-#-#

"Spencer?" When Reid opened his eyes, the room was dark even though the shades had not been drawn, and Reid was feeling cold.

"Spencer," The gravelly whisper came again, Reid turned his blurred view toward the voice and then felt the bed sink under Michael's weight as he joined him on the bed, laying an arm across the drowsy younger man. Michael ran his hand through the younger man's hair as he spoke, "The it's morning, Spence,"Michael kissed the side of Reid's face. "Someone came by a few hours ago and knocked on your door. I should go if they come back, I don't want you stressin' about how you'll explain this, on top of everything else."

Reid turned in bed, facing Michael, not wanting to lose a feeling of security he was certain he would not find again, "You can't leave yet," he reached up and kissed the older man tentatively.

Michael's hand came to Reid's waist, pushing him back a little to put distance between them, but sighed with want when Reid pulled away from the kiss, "Spencer, you're playing dirty now. You know," Michael kissed him again, trying to keep the insistence he was feeling in check, "I'd stay here until the sun went down again."

Reid smiled and buried his head in Michael's shoulder as he spoke, "I don't think it's what they had in mind when they sent me on this trip but I think this qualifies as, 'personal leave.'"

"I'm sure your students are a bit more creative with their excuses," Michael laughed, squeezing Reid playfully in his arms, "I have to go though. I'm sorry, Spence." Michael kissed the younger man again, smiling widely when Reid whimpered as he pulled away. Then Michael snatched him back again quickly, "Meet you tonight – pub by City Lights?" Reid reached forward to confirm the plans with a kiss but Michael pulled away teasingly, "Sleep some more if you can," Reid edged closer as Michael spoke but the older man maintained the breath of distance between them, "you need your strength, professor," with that Mike closed the distance between he and Reid for a final breath-stealing kiss, before finally making his exit.

Spencer lay there for a few moments, soaking this oh-so-temporary, placid state of mind. It wasn't soon after the idea of how grateful Spencer was for the peace in the room that his thoughts began to darken. _This is only temporary. What will you do next week when you're in Washington, D.C. and he's on the other side of the country? Will you make it thru a week? How 'bout a month? Do you think they'd still keep you around after a month of this? They'd be ready for you to die by then. Why are you waiting for them to give up on you?_

Reid stood and went to pick up his phone, three messages from Rossi; one, confirming the plans for tomorrow, two, seeing if Reid wanted a drink, three; wishing Reid a good night's sleep, offering him another chance to talk (_anytime, really_), and then a quick confirmation of tomorrow's plans.

Spencer went about his routine as fast as possible, trying to avoid that chilling voice in his ear – the one set on delivering the bad news _and pointing out the unavoidable unreality – it's a matter of when._

#-#-#-#-#

The tearful young man looked back at the cab as it drove off from the side entrance of his school campus. The drop off point was the least desirable place to find oneself at the early hours of the morning, the aptly dubbed, 'smoker's corner.' Since the campus had been deemed 'smoke-free' the tobacco-inclined students were relegated to the back of the campus - behind the dorms, and at the rear entrance of a parking garage – forced to congregate like modern-day lepers.

"You okay?" The man sitting on the tobacco-stained concrete bench asked, "You look like you had a really good, or a really bad night?"

The boy whimpered a little and looked away, casting his eyes toward the sky, watching the smoke from the older man's cigarette mingle with the fog, "It was supposed to be the best night of my life."

The older man gestured to the bench, stood, and then in what seemed like a singular movement to the young boy's substance-addled mind, put his boots on the bench and push himself into a sitting position on the wall just a foot or so above. The older man was close enough so that his boot-clad feet could knick at the boy's arms or shoulder to emphasize a point. "You had a date?" The older man asked, knocking his boots casually against the wall as he spoke.

"We went to the same middle school," the boy began, his shoulders shivering with the tension of contained emotion, "we ended up in different high schools. We started talking a lot after running into each other at this school drama competition thing – he's make such a beautiful actor," the boy said, dreamily breaking away from his story and then gasping again, most likely at the knowledge that he would never see the beautiful-would-be-actor again.

"So what happened after this competition of yours?" The older man had leaned down, his elbows resting on his knees, now able to look at the young man squarely in the eye – he wanted to see that tear-swollen cheeks turn even redder when he asked the next question, "When was the first time he kissed you?" The older man had flirted with the idea of using coarser language but this kid was softer, and after whatever happened tonight, he needed a little sweetness – the rest of the older man's work was already done.

The kid scooted himself back on the bench and pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his coat tighter against the cold. "Junior year, my parents were gone, so he spent the weekend with me – just us for two whole days – you'd think that we would have gotten sick of each other but it just got better, every second that passed. We decided that summer that we'd apply to the same schools for college and then we could really see each other, really be together." The boy paused and then sucked in a sudden, watery breath. "He's here in the city but he went somewhere else. He didn't even want to bring me on campus," the boy sniffled and then blurted out, "He has a girlfriend!" The boy's distress was growing and the older man's brow furrowed at the thought of another bawling outburst.

Instead, he leaned back and propelled himself off of the wall and landed, with a loud clap, in front of the bench. When the older man's feet struck the pavement his lighter fell out of the front pocket of his shirt and hit the pavement. The boy went for it quickly, finding himself half-kneeling in front of the older man, once the lighter was in hand. Instead of taking the lighter from the outstretched hand, the older man looked down and smiled, extending a hand that gently brought the boy to his feet, then plucking the lighter from his grip. "Thank you," When the boy's eyes began to well again with tears at the soft words, the older man slung an arm around his shoulders and turned him away from the gray apartment-like dorms and toward a lake, with the same fragrant and long-stretching shade trees, "Want to get off-campus and talk?"

The kid sigh and nodded – the man's suggestion could only mean one thing - he was going to smoke him out, and most likely try something, but that could be gracefully avoided. Besides, a few hits, a shower, and a long nap before his 11:50am class, was just what the doctor ordered. He didn't like to make it a habit but in occasions like this, the death of a few brain cells seemed more than warranted.

"When's your first class?" The older man asked as they crossed the street and stepped onto the trail toward the lake.

"Noon," the boy said, "I won't ask you because I know you don't take classes here," The porcelain-skinned boy tossed out casually as they rose up to the crest of the trail which overlooked Lake Merced.

"Why do you say that?" The older man chuckled nervously.

"Because even kids like me on the straight and narrow – no jokes – can spot a narc posing as a student," Again, the boy didn't waver as he put his back to the older man and continued ahead toward the lake.

"Very funny, kid," the older man had caught up to him and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder and guided him to an open clearing with a uninterrupted view of the lake, which was glistening in the early morning sunlight. The older man sat down and spread his jacket on the ground for his companion, "he turned you away and it took you until now to get home, if I was a cop do you think I'd buy a shitty story like that?" He winked at the young man.

It really was that simple; a few well-placed questions, a few sympathetic looks, and the boy was laying back in the grass, smiling up at him expectantly. The ease was infuriating almost but any anger that might show through had to be hidden. This kid was a two for one. By the end of his time with the boy he would leave with the boy's tormenter's information as well. This porcelain morsel would be like the overture to his masterpiece, by the time he was done with both of them he could rest easy….for awhile.

**A/N: I always forget how great it feels to get those little notifications of followers or comments. You guys are the best! Thanks for the active feedback. I'm glad the new/original character is coming across well. As far as working Keller into future chapters – I think I've discovered that opposing inner-monologues are kind of my thing, so expect more Keller as the Devil on Reid's shoulder. ;) So much nothin' happened in this chapter but I hear all good things come in threes so expect some action (and FINALLY) some team involvement in the chapter to come – hopefully, in a few days. **


	3. Tomorrow I'll Be Gone

**Warning: Not really that graphic descriptions of the attack in the previous story, and spoilers for the following episodes: 'Elephant's Memory', 'Uncanny Valley', 'Revelations', and the first three seasons of the HBO series, Oz. **

Upon intense inspection, it appeared that the once-black crescents under his eyes were now growing lighter. The lack of sunlight in the city was not helping matters when it came to his complexion but that's not what he worried about. He didn't care about vanity issues –he was tired, pun intended, of looking like the Lazarus, fresh from the cave.

The entire day had been different – Reid felt differently and he felt like a little bit of his appearance should reflect that.

The first stop that day had been to the local Federal offices for a few presentations and meetings with the often unseen members of the West Coast staff. Then just a few blocks down from the Federal building were several post-graduate programs, housed in office complexes in the city's Financial District. One brief presentation to a class full of PhD candidates, followed by a question and answer/advisement session – the day dragged on forever- but then when it was over, Reid was free. He was free to meander nervously down the Embarcadero, half-heartedly browsing an outdoor market, and then up the hill to his hotel.

Reid had avoided Rossi, avoided him as though if he'd come to close enough then David would be able to smell the truth on him. If Rossi's gaze lingered just long enough, Reid was certain that he would uncover the truth to Reid's new found distracted peacefulness.

Indeed, Rossi had noticed something odd about Spencer Reid. Since Keller's attack, Reid's empty moments in between thoughts looked anguished, filled with sadness, and latent humiliation. Now in between Reid's words and thoughts there was a kind of hopefulness. A few of the more innocently earnest questions from students had actually gotten Reid to crack a smile. Rossi was taken aback at the rare display of an untroubled exchange. Reid wasn't short with Dave anymore either. No, now he just happily avoided him. Reid put himself to use; talking to students, answering questions, handing out the fliers, and volunteering for a comprehensive tour of the Federal building for godsakes – all in the attempt to avoid David Rossi, or at least ensure that the older man had no room to question him.

The only fear that Reid fought now was, thankfully, terribly ordinary. Was he moving at this too quickly? Was he letting his mind assume things that he shouldn't? Michael used words and language that made him think maybe he knew, first-hand, about all that Reid was going through. No, he knew that was the case. What was that he'd said about helping someone detox? That sleep routine must have been tried and true on someone else? Reid shook his head at the idea of it meaning something more than it probably did. Reid had seen the guys in the local field offices or, on a case or, in the halls of Quantico….Michael had said something about being glad they hadn't met on the job…was he undercover?

Reid couldn't very well just ask, just as he couldn't very well reveal his occupation. Granted, it wasn't some Bureau-enforced policy – he just didn't want to get into that conversation. It was as if, if he began to reveal some of it, all of it would come pouring out. The confession about high school was too much, almost. It was as if each fact of his life somehow, inexplicably, led to that time with Keller. Michael already knew something was wrong with Reid and Reid wanted to spare himself the humiliation if he could, and just be content to take advantage of Michael's vague, but sweet, understanding. Reid finally reached his hotel room and threw his messenger bag on the bed and then sunk down beside it.

This was the last night they'd have and Reid still wasn't sure what to do. If he pushed the other man away it might be so much easier. Yes, Michael would probably at least feign disappointment, because that's the kind of nice guy he is. He wouldn't let on to his relief that Reid was gone – the wet blanket was gone. If Reid thought about it long enough he would talk himself out of showing up at the pub at all.

Then there was the option of being honest, coming clean, and actually allowing himself to show the distress, fear, and disappointment at being so quickly ripped away from someone that….well, who knew what the potential was, really…but it was enough that there was some, wasn't it? _Potential for what?_ Dr. Reid could hear every single voice of reason he knew gnawing at his idea to entertain anything other than a brief send off of the older man. When he got back home he'd see his doctor and wheedle his was into getting something for sleep. _Even if they do make you drive and binge eat in your sleep, you'd still be acting less insane at night than you are now. _

Reid shifted uncomfortably as he thought about last night. What had compelled him to be so reckless this time? Yes, true there was that whole 'what's the worst that could happen' element of it all. What, should he be scared that the man might follow him back to the North Beach B&B to rape and maim him? Should he be afraid that a trauma like that might change him? Or should he be afraid that the older man might do something to ruin his ability to function, to think, to sleep?

The longer Reid sat there thinking the more he began to build up a sound defensive wall against any kind of derision his choice might bring.

#-#-#-#-#

"Hotch," JJ called before walking into the Unit Chief's office, "I think we may have an emergency on our hands."

Aaron Hotchner looked up from up with a frustrated glower, not meant for JJ but more as a response to the multi-paged memo in front of him outlining new budget-adjustment strategies, "What's wrong, JJ?"

"With your approval, sir, we'll be joining Rossi and Reid in California. I received a request from the forestry service there – they've found several victims, each time, they were mistakenly associating them with local crime, but this morning the first tour cruise to one of the Bay Area islands discovered this young man," JJ placed a photograph on Hotch's desk. The Unit Chief was now listening closely while looking at the picture critically for information. However, the first one to enter his mind was Reid - those fitting black pants, the trendy tennis shoes, artfully disheveled hair… with the exception of the victim's olive skin -the similarities were too many.

Hotch wondered if Reid had knowledge of the case yet. Not a day went pasted after Spencer's departure that Hotch didn't worry. Rossi had been good about giving him brief updates. Now Reid would be thrown right into the thick of a crime that so closely resembled the case that Reid had just been investigating. Even more disconcerting is that he would finally have to face the team, and they would have to face him in turn. Mutual discomfort aside, Hotch gave his approval and instructed JJ to brief team while he informed Rossi of their arrival.

He wasn't sure if Reid would ever forgive him. Reid's mind was such that….how could he not keep a grudge? Aaron by no means had an eidetic memory – hell, as it seemed these days he was lucky that he didn't stroll into the plane carrying Jack, after dropping his overnight bag off at Jack's elementary school. Hotch knew he couldn't understand what it was like to have that capability that Reid did but he did know what it was like to have memories you wished you didn't. Aaron was also well-schooled in subjects of jealousy and anger but those recollections had no place in this case.

Aaron wished he'd been more open with Reid about Foyet, his experience, and his slim potential of understanding a little better than most.

Reid's incident report, supporting photographic evidence, and write-up by Agent Derek Morgan arrived in Hotch's office long before the young man would. In the photographs Reid had his eyes closed, looking more like he was drowsy or drugged rather than avoiding the camera. Reid had gone through some pain, there was no doubt about that, but as a profiler, Aaron couldn't suppress the voice that sprung up in his mind like an over-eager student; Keller had spared Reid. Reid's wounds didn't even begin to resemble Keller's most intensely-focused desires that were displayed prominently on all of Keller's other victims that he'd had equal time and privacy with.

The boys that Keller had killed had been beaten at some point. Keller's line between sex and violence had been so completely blurred during those kills that they were almost indistinguishable. The stack of case files detailing Keller's crimes showed victims that had been mauled. Each mark, each bruise, on Spencer's body had been calculated. The clarity of the marks, the unmarred skin around the wounds, showed that Keller had focused on those moments of pain – each mark had an intention. Had he just enjoyed watching Reid; his eyes filled with tears, and that brave, thoughtful face that he made when he was scared out of his mind – did he take pleasure in watching him suffer? Did he question Reid? Was he trying to draw out information from Spencer with each of these marks?

Aaron had sat once and watched, helpless, as Reid was subjected to pain and the fear of dying – he knew what those screams sounded like and he knew that sound in Reid's voice when he hurt, when he begged.

Aaron Hotchner, the classic narcissist, the Unit Chief Narcissus had stared so long at those pictures of the young man that at times, it did seem like he would remain frozen in place, eyes permanently fixed to the broken image of Spencer Reid.

With Reid out of sight, away from the office, and under someone else's attentions, this would somehow guarantee Aaron freedom from that inescapable idea of Reid; laying broken and bleeding on some prison cot as a murderer, a loaded weapon, sat just inches from him. Reid's pallor was just a shade away from Aaron's own destruction. If he lost…if the _team_ lost Reid it would irreparably wound them all.

Aaron stared at Reid's injuries all those days, trying to draw out some kind of justification to why Reid went back. Reid had done well to keep his emotions or opinions out of his daily reports to Hotch during his time at Oswald. Keller was dead and would not be revealing any of Reid's secrets any time soon. Aaron could stare at the picture of the stripped and battered man all he liked, but it wouldn't reveal the furtive glance Reid had given toward the doorway of the infirmary in an effort to avoid the guard, and it wouldn't paint any pictures of the nocturnal terrors that had chipped away at the young man's defenses.

Then Hotch turned to the most unpleasant portion of the report – the portion that had come to mind with sick insistency as soon as the folder hit his desk – Reid's sexual assault kit.

Should he be grateful that Reid had sustained little to no internal injury. Of course, he was grateful. He knew this would be the point at which one of the other male team members would point out the obvious – minimal damage, minimal pain, which was not something that fit the UnSub, Christopher Keller, at all. Keller was the man who had seduced his former lover with the pure intent of breaking his arms and legs with his bare hands. Tobias Beecher's bones had shattered under Keller's blows and there was no care to make sure that Beecher was broken in such a way that he would recover smoothly. It was too easy to chalk Keller's behavior up to nature. Keller didn't have control in his attacks, not even with his former lover, Beecher. Keller's brutality was part of his aura in Oz and his file was a perfect illustration of that point. Keller was so clearly untrustworthy that he'd even worked that opinion to give him an advantage. Writing Keller off gave him even more power, more room for manipulation.

Just as a profiler is taught to read between the lines, to interpret the absences just as heavily as the presences, it was the presence of those miniscule, yet vast, spaces between Reid's wounds that made him wonder. No doubt, Keller's mouth had been filled with words when he hadn't been doing _this._ What must have Reid been saying, also not a man known to be brief, concise, or even, at times socially-passable. _Oh God_. He could almost hear him – that strained, clipped voice that Reid got when he was scared or angry, or the way he could speak soothingly to the most disturbed individuals. Did he try to talk Keller out of it, using something from his large stack of notebooks?

Reid's brazen willingness to endanger himself in order to better understand an UnSub was disturbingly dangerous. Aaron Hotchner had never been angrier at Reid then during that case. Reid had been willing to die, or at least wager his life, for the life of a serial murdering teenager. There was some common experience that had bound Reid to Owen and he and Keller showed no such obvious connection. Keller must have gained his trust at some point. Hotch had wanted to point toward Keller's visit to the infirmary due to an overzealous CO. _Reid, the CO, and the prison itself, were all just part of one big hand meant to bat Christopher Keller down the path of life._ Hotch tried to follow the vein of Keller's thinking – what he would have tried to impart to Reid. Was it abandonment that Chris tried to bond them on? Reid was well-aware that the UnSub was the expert at their job, so why would he allow someone like Keller into his mind? It didn't make sense but, somewhere in the blank space, it was beginning to take shape.

Reid had said that he'd rushed in to stop an attack, the CO against inmate, 'the guard was coming after him,' Morgan had scribbled into his notes. This wasn't Owen, though. Owen was a child – a child, by Reid's mind, pushed into doing what he did. Keller wasn't Owen. _Keller had plenty of choices, plenty of choices that didn't involve raping an FBI agent half his age. _Just the thoughts of the event had Aaron filled such rage, and impotent frustration, that he could do nothing to ease_._ Hotch quickly stopped and corrected himself, _this is why you didn't send yourself. _His meetings with Keller would have probably gone on, uninterrupted for one session, maybe two, before one of them was ready to take a swing at the other. Not that Keller's being dead excused him from Hotch's continued, insatiable wrath

Hotch could hear the sound of the guard's voice, unrepentantly admitting to locking Reid in with Keller and turning his back. He had described how Reid hadn't yelled and how everything seemed calm. Then he said it. The words that had Aaron struggling to stay in his seat and not across the table, ripping the man's throat out, "I figured given Keller's history and all," the guard chuckled, "that the two might want some time in private."

Aaron had gotten a chance to satisfy his vengeance that day. The unrepentant man was now donning prison attire in the same facility that he once guarded – moved promptly to the general population. Warden Glynn had guaranteed the man would not see a moment inside Unit J (Protective Custody) and would spend every moment of his time served in gen. pop..

Aaron received word a week ago, after a failed attempt by the drug-running contingent to kill the form hack several days ago, the Aryans finally succeeded. The man responsible for Reid's imprisonment with Keller had bled out slowly in a supply closet in Unit B. Hotch had no plans to tell Reid.

In Aaron's line of work the issues surrounding political correctness of not blaming the victim never entered into the equations, absolving the victim by their wounds alone was, not only impractical, but could be a downright fatal mistake. Aaron had once assigned innocence to someone because of the marks on their flesh and it was by far the greatest mistake of his life. Had it begun consensually? Reid acquiescing to soft, unthreatening touches and then an embrace he doesn't dare struggle out of.

Aaron shifted in his seat and threw his copy of the approved, field resources request form on top of the crime scene photo still sitting on his desk. Then, after casting a glance at his closed office door, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a copy of a case file. He opened it to a black and white copy of a photograph of Spencer on his side, in profile. Reid had said, the last thing he remembered was Keller hitting him. Reid had denied it when Morgan had asked Reid if Keller had struck him before, but eventually he tearfully confessed – eventually, he confessed to all of it.

Morgan had guarded Reid's words with fierce protectiveness. Hotch suspected that something had been omitted from the report but he was not eager to seek out what that was. He kept the file close at hand, for what reason, he still wasn't sure.

Then came the day that Reid walked into the office and it all became very vivid in Aaron's mind. Hotch flipped the page and looked over the copy of the photograph of Reid's back, broken out in bruises and angry, red marks. Reid looked so small in those photographs, and looking at Reid in person, it just drove home to Hotch the true cruelty of his decision. He couldn't allow Reid to linger around the office; working on things meant to keep him busy, chatting distractedly to coworkers, and pretending that everything was returning to normal. How could things return to normal? How could he expect Reid to accept any of his assignments from him? No, Reid had to leave, he had to be out of sight for awhile, at least until all of the bruises had faded.

Aaron was certain that the bruises were gone by now but it was that look of injury that he worried still lingered. No matter, Reid would have until the end of the day to come to terms with the idea of working a case with the team again.

#-#-#-#-#

Reid paced through his room, flipping hastily through the clothes already laid out on the best, and then striding back into the bathroom and looking critically at his reflection. Reid kicked off his more professorial loafers and put on the pair of shoes that Michael had seen him in over the last few days. He hoped that people didn't really remember those things. If after all of the unpredictability of the last few days, Michael had the time to retain information regarding his choice – well, it obviously was something that _really_ mattered. He didn't seem like that type though. Reid let out a sigh and dropped all but one shirt from his hands and put it on. The longer he spent in his hotel room paying attention to his clothes was attention and time that could have been spent elsewhere. Spencer pulled on a loose tie, and fought his inner obsessive to leave the vest unbuttoned – but ultimately lost, which made him appear much younger and conservative than he'd intended.

He wasn't about to stand there debating his appearance for a moment longer but did pause on the way out to take in his effort. Reid's hair remained slightly damp but promised to be drying in a fashionably wayward style. Reid had packed absolutely chance for a selection so onto his fifth pair of black slacks it was. He had slightly more freedom with his clothes but he was beginning to find those resources limited as well. As it were, he wore a white long-sleeved dress-shirt that had a deep red cardigan over it, hanging loosely at his sides.

Spencer stared at his bag by the door before plucking out his wallet and shoving it into his back pocket and then turning is cell phone off and placing it in the other back pocket of his slacks. He wouldn't be needing his phone tonight and he'd already checked in with Rossi an hour ago and it was clear – Spencer was free.

Reid walked the few blocks up Columbus before arriving at the stained-glass adored pub. The pub and bookstore sat right at the crest of where the North Beach district shifted; look one direction and it's the Hungy I that was converted from poetry space to porn palace after the dot-com boom, and the rest of the neighborhood behind the famous club followed suit – going back to their Barbary Coast brothel roots. Look the other direction on Columbus and it's what the tour guides promise, Little Italy – pastry shops, gelato, eateries (five star and all the way down), and all things worth sending postcards home about. This corner was where the city and traveler's expectations split – part of the city would always be a little barbarous. It was on this Jekyll and Hyde-like line Reid waited, in a mahogany booth, for the other, enigmatic man to join him.

After fifteen minutes had passed, Spencer gave into the pressure of the barkeep and ordered a drink – the jocular familiarity that Reid had witnessed the first night was nowhere to be found now that Michael was not yet present.

A half an hour in and Reid was cursing himself for not bringing a book, paperwork, or something to keep, if not his mind, then his hands busy. Michael wasn't coming. Reid knew it. Reid knew it and he wasn't ready yet to admit defeat. They'd maintained some kind of unspoken rule of not exchanging that kind of contact information – why, Reid didn't quite know –but at the moment it seemed wildly disconcerting. Reid looked at his cell phone and wallet sitting on the table, he opened his phone and contemplated calling directory assistance but had no idea where he'd go from there…

"You put my number in there when I wasn't lookin'?" A mischievous, rasping voice came from over Reid's shoulder.

Reid attempted to turn in the booth but before he could make it all the way around to the familiar voice, Michael's hand had come to rest gently at the back of Spencer's neck and used the young man's own moment to bring him into a kiss. Reid breathed in quickly in surprise and brought his hands to the older man's chest when he, instead of pulling away, settled closer into the embrace and deepened the kiss. Spencer turned his turned his head away from the older man after lingering a moment longer.

"We're-" Reid began before Mike's husky voice intervened, "Have you forgotten where you are?" Michael whispered with serious sincerity, "I have yet to hear somethin' bad but I didn't know I had skills like that," He playfully shined the back of his hand on his shirt and then squeezed his arm around Reid's shoulder, as the younger man scooted into the booth to allow the other man room next to him.

Once they'd settled, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Reid stared straight ahead, trying to recover from the kiss, and still fighting with his anger and worry that could…_no, it didn't matter if this was going to become a pattern. Michael could be chronically late and irresponsible for the rest of his days on this earth but that did not matter to Reid – it couldn't matter to him. You're leaving – these are goodbye kisses. _Then there he was, like some phantasm summoned by Reid's merriment. Reid could see Keller looking down at him with those ice-blue eyes. _These are goodbye kisses._ Reid could feel the color draining from his face and his palms begin to sweat at the sudden realization of how close the other man was to him. He was beginning to fidget with the cloth bunched at the knee of his slacks, then he felt a warn, rough hand over his, rubbing in those mesmerizingly slow circles.

"Would we have enough time left in the day for you to tell me," he extended his other hand to Reid's head, running his fingers down the back of Reid's skull, through his hair, "what's going on in that mind of yours?" and down his touch continued, onto Reid's shoulders, kneading gently.

Reid tried to gently shrug off the older man's touch but instantly regretted the loss when Michael complied, "I said goodbye to someone recently. I knew that if I left that they would die and I didn't want to leave," Reid tried to express himself as concisely as he could but still skirting his job and the nature of Keller's attack. Still even with all of the omissions Reid heard his voice begin to grow watery and strained, "he would have died anyhow, even if I had stayed. He didn't want me there so," he took in a breath and then released any hesitation before he continued, "he hurt me. He hurt me so I couldn't come back."

Michael just nodded and looked at Reid very seriously, "He's dead then?"

Again, Reid looked at Michael strangely – his ability to cling to the most seemingly irrelevant portions of Reid's words, never left him with anything other than confusion. Reid just nodded looking at Michael in a state of hurt puzzlement.

"Okay," Michael said with an air of serious, then looked at Reid and his eyes softened, "That's the best for him considering the circumstances."

Reid arched an eyebrow and the older man incredulously, "What? You'd come after him? Be serious. Besides, you shouldn't joke about things like that in public."

Michael laughed again, "I think these walls have heard worse."

Reid cast his eyes askance at Michael and spoke without thinking, pure habit, "Typical alpha-male posturing."

Now it was Michael's turn to look incredulously at Reid, "I can, for sure, tell you what the first word means and the last one too, so unless the word in the middle makes it a compliment, I'm pretty sure that's you're genius way of telling me I'm full of shit." Michael laughed and then gave Reid a playful nudge and that small jostle was just enough to get the younger man to crack a smile, still grinning mischievously as he spoke, "Nope, that middle world isn't really a compliment."

"Yeah, didn't figure," Michael smiled, pulling Reid back to him and sinking down in the wooden booth a bit. After a short pause, Michael looked to Reid, his face had grown serious again, "I'm not posing-"

"Posturing," Reid injected.

"Posturing," Michael corrected, "Either way, he wouldn't be safe," He shook off his threatening tone after one look over Reid showed that he was probably doing more harm than reassurance with his boast. He nuzzled Reid's ear, hoping to bring out a smile, "I'm sorry, Spence. I just want to make sure that you have nothing but peaceful nights from now on."

Reid laughed and turned to the older man, trying to keep the tone of condescension from his voice, "I wish that was true. I wish that was possible. It's just my work," Reid hesitated, "my studies aren't really conducive to sleep."

Mike nodded with a knowing smile, his fingers coming to toy with a button at the bottom of Reid's cardigan, "Professor by day and," Michael paused for dramatic effect, "Indiana Jones by night? You exploring tombs and solving ancient mysteries when you're not causing trouble in bookstore in the afternoon?" Reid laughed again and looked at Michael indignantly. Michael's hand fell to Reid's slender hip, "I didn't see a whip lying anywhere around that room of yours yesterday."

Reid was beginning to worry that his face was starting to resemble shade of his deep red cardigan. Michael's hand lazily drifted down Reid's leg, until it came to rest at that knot of material that Reid had been worrying at the side of his knee. "You're more of a Clark Kent-type anyhow," Reid looked at the older man, his face now taking on a shade of concern as well. "Have I guessed it, Spence? Are you saving the world when we're not looking?"

Reid cleared his throat and straightened in booth, "We're not spending my last night in San Francisco here, are we?" Reid meant it more of a distraction rather than a complaint but couldn't help but worry that it might have been how it sounded.

"Uh oh," Michael teased, scooting out of the booth then taking Reid's hand and bring him to his feet, "Sun is going down and Indie feels like an adventure. Where to, professor?"

"Surprise me," Reid said, and in a move that surprised them both he put his arms around the older man's neck and kissed him, when he pulled away he smiled and fell in mock obedience to Michael's side, "Lead the way."

Michael took Reid's hand and led him out of the bar – the perfect location already in mind.

**A/N: I know, I know, I'm mean for leaving you with a cliffhanger. There's going to be a lot happening in the coming updates so I will be splitting them a bit more thinly than I have the last few chapters. But hey, shorter chapters mean more frequent, better proofed updates, right? Yeah, totally. Thank you to all of the reviewers, followers, and uncounted lurkers – y'all totally make my day. Have a great up-coming week. Oh and if you get updates for the previous to chapters, you can disregard them…just me setting some of the more glaring errors to rights.**


	4. Standing Amongst the Ruins

**Warning: Well, actually this time I have a few for you and they aren't of the silly or sarcastic variety. First, let me stress that all events and characters described herein are a work of the author's mind. Any resemblance of this work of fiction to any actual person or event is purely coincidental (or is actual well-known, historical information incorporated for authenticity (and fun)). **

**Second, there are spoilers (or references) to the following CM episodes: 'Elephant's Memory,' 'Profiler, Profiled,' and 'Amplification." **

**Lastly, this chapter contains descriptions of intimate contact between two consenting male adults. If that offends you, feel free to go to the search engine of your choosing and look at pictures of puppies and kittens. Also, brief mention of the subject matter contained in 'Profiler, Profiled,'…not belabored but mentioned. **

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When they arrived at their destination, the sun was setting and casting a warm hue over the tan columns that stood before them and stretched heavenward, dwarfing both men. Michael took Spencer's hand and wove through the column until they arrived at the adobe-colored dome and suddenly the younger man felt as if he was walking through a postcard. Reid closed his eyes for moment, opening them slowly trying to project the crowd of 1920's-era men and women strolling among the newly carved and assembled rotunda. Reid could begin to imagine how overwhelming this would have been to that crowd at the Pacific Coast World's Faire. The perfectly cool day, the blue sky turned pink over the pond that could be seen from the dome – it couldn't be any more perfect. Then Reid's gaze turned to his companion who was watching him fondly, smiling.

"I love coming here," Michael said, taking Reid's hands in his and walking into the center of the large coral-colored dome. The ceiling of the rotunda had been carved into small three-dimensional squares that expanded upward around another ornate carving. Michael brought Reid close to him as they stood under the empty dome. It was Michael's turn now to rest both arms around Reid's neck; nervously Michael alternated kneading Spencer's shoulders to lacing his fingers behind Reid neck, loosely cupping the younger man's face with his thumbs. Michael cast his eyes downward before looking at the young man who moved underneath his tough, "Spencer, I'm going to miss you."

Reid smiled, trying to lighten the moment, inject some sensibility into it, "You haven't even known me a week."

"God, Spence! You really don't let a guy down easy do you," Mike laughed but the clearing fog of emotion in the older man's eyes betrayed him.

"I've never really understood it," Reid said, trying to compensate for his oblivious but hurtful words, "That day in the bookstore was probably one of the lowest points in my life. What good thing could have possibly appealed to you about me then?"

Michael shook his head at Reid question and leaned in to kiss the younger man. Reid evaded the Mike's advance, slipping himself from Michael's grasp, "It's not a joke. I want to know why." Reid words came out more demanding than he'd intended but by the look on Michael's face, Reid was certain that they had achieved their desired effect. Reid walked out of the echoing rotunda to the continuing adobe-colored pathway, "What did I look like I must have been good for?"

"Truly," Michael followed behind Spencer. Beyond the dome was a large pond, a pond lined by trees, a slender path, and at a bend in the path was an empty sandy space by the water's edge. Michael laid his jacket on the soft, dry ground and gestured for Reid to sit next to him. When Reid sat down, Michael put a warm around him. "Truly Spencer, I did it because you reminded me of someone I knew. I'd found him looking like that once. I couldn't leave him then and I wasn't about to leave you either." Michael paused and then stretched out a hand and rested it on Reid's knee. Before Reid could protest, Michael had taken advantage of Reid's bent and parted knees, to shift his position and climb between them. Michael now knelt between Reid's bent legs. Michael sat back on his heels and placed his other, unoccupied hand on Spencer's other knee. "Listen to me, Spencer," Michael looked directly into the young man's eyes, "You tell me that you're here with coworkers and yet you're wandering around a strange city, you haven't slept in what- weeks? –months? How does that happen? How do you have people that claim to care about you and they let you stumble around the city, drunk on insomnia? Would you have ignored you, Spencer?"

Reid leaned back, trying to evade the forcefully close contact. Spencer's mind began to pull away but he steadied himself and tried to remain attentive to Michael's words. Here was a complete stranger articulating something that had bothered him since his initial assignment to interview Keller. Yet it wasn't his thankfulness for this extraordinary understanding that Reid chose to voice, "Sounds like a full- time job," Reid's voice dripped with sarcastic disbelief, "must keep you busy going around _this city,_ hugging every junkie you find. I guess I don't have to worry about you being lonely for long after I leave."

"Spencer," Michael said evenly, "you can't tell me that you would have ignored you? Really, professor?" Michael looked disbelievingly at Reid, Michael leaned away from Reid, coming back again to rest on his heels, "Then maybe that's what's troubling you. Your friend, the one who hurt you, maybe he did it because he knew you'd handle that better than watching him suffer," Reid's eyes swam with angry tears at Michael's words as he stared at the older man in disbelief.

"You don't even begin to have a clue on the subject which you so ignorantly are attempting to speak," Reid yelped, as Michael kept a firm grasp on the younger man, preventing him from rising from where they sat.

"I know that you asked me why," Michael moved closer to Reid, his voice rumbling low in his throat, "I told you why," Now he was moving closer to Reid and the young man's heart was beginning to pound, just inches more and he would be over him completely, "and then you accuse me of wanting to prey on you," Michael lay over the younger man, enjoying Reid's anxious wriggling beneath him, "I had you asleep in my arms," he whispered, nipping at Reid's lower lip, "I had eight hours to do whatever I liked," to emphasize his point, Michael pressed his hips into Reid and nestling his lips in gentle curve of Reid's neck. Reid's shifting underneath him turned to shivers. The older man paused, mid-motion and suspended his weight completely away from Reid when he felt the young man below him shaking.

"I-I'm sorry," Reid breathed out, trying to quiet the silent, rapid procession of tears now coursing down his cheeks, "I'm-I-It's okay," Reid tried pathetically to reassure Michael. Michael hadn't hesitated in moving off of, and around to the side of Reid; bringing the younger man into a sitting position, then coming to kneel at his back for support, and gently putting pressure on Reid's shoulders so he leaned back into him.

Michael waited as Reid continued to try and calm nerves. Then Spencer let out a hushed, wet sigh full of remorse, "I shouldn't have gone with you."

Michael hummed a low hush and began rubbing Spencer's back in those slow, soothing circles that Reid had come to crave, still his anxiety refused to abate, "C'mon, Spence. It's just us here."

Reid dropped his chin to his chest, closing his eyes, and let out a long breath, "It's over," Reid said in sorrowful resolution, "I'm no good like this."

"Spencer," Reid almost jumped with the unexpected tone coming from the older man, it was almost as if the Unit Chief had been the one behind him speaking. Michael squeezed the younger man's shoulders as he spoke, "It is nowhere near over, not even close. Spencer, this will fade. He will disappear," Michael took a risk and shifted the younger man slightly so that he could look into his face as he spoke and observe the reactions to his words, "I told you that I knew, didn't I? I told you that I'd found someone that I cared for looking like you did that day. I know what it took him to recover from that but he did. He's married, actually," Michael smiled and rolled his eyes, waving off the obvious swarm of questions, "it's really complicated."

Reid closed his eyes and sunk into the familiar pose; held close to Michael's side, one of Michael's hands under his neck, the other across his body, playing with the fabric at Reid's knee, but this time rather than laying down, his legs were draped over the kneeling older man. Spencer sighed. He was sick of the anxiety, the memories, and the intrusion on the otherwise, dreamy moments. Here was a man telling Reid everything he was feeling in pitch-perfect terms, and the best part was that most of it, he was spared from revealing. Spencer let out another long sigh as Michael's arms around him conjured memories of peacefully drifting into sleep. The familiar scent; Reid leaned up into the embrace and found the tender, stubble-covered hollow between Michael's jawbone and throat. The older man's skin vibrated with a soft, muffled groan of appreciation and surprise at Reid's shift in mood. As Reid's attention intensified, Michael was hesitant to do little more than to hold Spencer as close to him as possible. It was torturous not being able to touch Spencer; to grab him, take control, and then spend the night watching him wracked with something other than terrified memories.

As it were the older man remained passive, as Reid shifted and Michael was able to finally bring his legs out from under himself, sitting back onto the soft, dry ground. Michael's slow, decisive movements had Spencer sliding onto his knees between Michael's bent legs – mirroring their previous position, this time Spencer was in the leveraging position. Just when Spencer became confident in his next step, and moved forward to initiate a kiss, Michael had hooked his fingers into Reid's belt loops and helped Reid propel himself forward. Michael leaned backward and enjoyed the feeling of the younger man struggling, awkwardly for purchase as his body slid over the older man.

Spencer played at kissing the older man slowly, at first, seeing if he would push him further or lose patience and take control. Michael remained obedient, leaving Reid to focus on something other than fear. Spencer pressed into the older man, chasing the sensation that coursed through him as the contact increased. Reid shifted again relieving the tension, and then intensifying the pressure of his hips to the older man. The fear had all but dissipated until Spencer realized that his hips were moving of their own lust-filled accord, even after his focus had shifted back to kissing the pliant man below him.

Then something happened, maybe it was a noise in the brush nearby, maybe it was the wind, or the maybe sprinklers hitting a tree – something made a sound, a sound coming from behind them - and Reid's moments of carefree abandonment were dashed. He could almost feel them at his back – all the killers the BAU had worked to stop who'd hunted targets just like this. Killers loved moments like this display of vulnerability. Reid allowed his mouth to drift down the side of the older man's face and back down to the crook of his neck, "We can't-please, I can't do this here," Reid's voice wavered as he spoke and the slow undulations of his hips continued like little dots of mocking - punctuating each word.

Michael's arms came up to encircle Reid, "We can go," Michael shifted against Reid, absorbing a few last reverberations of pleasure before pushing, supporting Reid's weight off of him. "Back to your place then?" The hint of hopefulness in Michael's voice made Reid playfully roll his eyes. Reid moved off of the older man and smiled when the other man was on his feet and hoisting Reid to a standing position in with him.

"Will you stay with me awhile?" Reid asked, once they'd dismounted Michael's motorcycle in a small side-street nearby Reid's hotel. Reid looked at the older man apologetically before he could answer, "I wish you-"

Michael held up a soft hand to interrupt Reid, "I'll stay until you're asleep."

#-#-#-#-#-#

Agent Derek Morgan sat staring at his phone as it autodialed through Spencer Reid's cellular phone number. Rossi entered Reid's room before departing to the Valencia St. SFPD Station and had found it empty. After several voicemail messages from differing members of the team, Morgan had taken it upon himself to sit vigil at the station, dialing Reid's number, while following the trail of crimes within the city that the lead detective had speculated were in some way connected to the victims that had been uncovered in local government-maintained property throughout the Bay Area.

About six months ago a young, affluent woman walking through the Hayes Valley neighborhood had reported an altercation with a man. He'd walked up next to her and shouted something unintelligible and had left her completely stunned. As she still struggled to understand his words, he struck her, landing a bruising punch to side of her face, and grabbing her smartphone in the process. Police stations city-wide received similar complaints until, three days after that, East Bay police report finding a young college-age man in the Oakland Hills who'd been brutally raped and murdered. A week later, a woman walking home to her Polk St. studio after a students-only concert at the San Francisco Opera House, was stabbed twice, non-fatally, in her abdomen – she had no description of the assailant.

The timeline zigzagged and blurred at many points in compiling the reports. Several local agencies had dismissed the found young men as transients, drug-fiends, or other undesirable and filed their cases accordingly – ensuring that scarce resources would not be lost in the effort to find their murderers.

The City had become outraged when the next victim of this binge of piqueristic terrorism turned out to be a nine-year-old boy taking a downtown bus home at the early evening hours. The boy's wounds were hesitant and superficial, not like the certain rage shown by attack on the previous woman.

That was when the City made their first discovery of a victim that resembled the boy in the East Bay; slender, light complexion, and dressed like he had planned to spend the evening out at a club or other Bay Area hotspot. He'd been identified as a Cal State East Bay underclassman. All that needed to be inferred about his familial relations was clear from his emergency contact sheet and campus form: blank. This kid was one of the many Bay Area refugees from around the rest of the United States – boys and girls biding their time until they can get out of their oppressive towns and come to a land where everything goes. Derek looked the picture over thoughtfully, wondering if the young man would have lasted any longer in his conservative small town. Derek knew what it was like to hide, to pray that your secret, your shame, wasn't aired to those you couldn't survive losing face with. Morgan's salivating mentor had reminded him of this on every occasion he felt his grip on the young man loosening, _What would his teammates have to say about the star who enjoyed giving himself up like this? _

Yes, Morgan thought, what was that about having an elephant's memory for pain? Whatever the cause, Morgan knew the power of shame wielded by the hateful and powerful. He wondered how much the UnSub understood that merging of experiences. _He was looking for a way out. He was deprived of something – of his escape! – and now he's striking out._

Derek stared intently at the markings on the coastal map and his thoughts drifted to Reid. He dialed the number one more time – still nothing.

He'd tried not worry over Reid during his absence from the team. Morgan knew Rossi was good at his job and not completely devoid of sensitivity (though, in truth, Derek still wished he'd hit him that night in Penelope's apartment), he had to trust that Reid would be in good hands. Though the thought that sending Reid across the country from his friends and support system, as a way of healing, seemed highly suspect to Morgan. He knew Reid was brave. Morgan had been a beneficiary of that bravery, once, long ago – but he also knew how Reid had suffered. Morgan would never forget those days in the hospital after the ordeal with Keller. He would have given anything to cry like that to someone, in those days when he needed an escape. In those days in the hospital, Morgan wanted to be everything for Reid that he had wanted so desperately, so long ago.

Reid had cried out each time someone had woken him in the middle of the first night – each interval more agonizing than the last. Derek had given up on sleep, sitting vigil by Reid's bed waiting for the nurse to come by again for his vital signs. The last attempt, after watching Reid sleep undisturbed for such a short time, Morgan practically begged them to allow him to wake Reid to their incoming ministration.

Morgan's hands came to cup Reid's slack hand in his, massaging the palm of the young man's hand, "Reid." He whispered, "Reid, it's Morgan. The nurses are back, man."

Reid fingers clenched tightly around Morgan's surrounding hand, "I can't," Reid said, tearfully burying his head into the side of his pillow, trying to slowly curl in on himself. Derek held up a hand to the nurse dragging her carousel of machines in Reid's room and she stilled, not suppressing her look of disappointment. "What's up, Reid?" Derek said, leaning closer to Reid but making an effort to remain to the young man's side and never over him.

"Derek, please. I can't go back," Reid croaked desperately. Derek could hear the drugs in Reid's voice, thickening it with forced tranquility.

"Reid, you're never going back. That wasn't even an option, kid." Derek tried to temper the tone of stern protectiveness that came across in his voice by rubbing his hands comfortingly over Reid's fingers. "Buddy, there's someone here to take your vitals again, you okay?" Reid looked at him worriedly. Derek smiled hoping to reassure the injured man, "I'm not going anywhere, man."

Reid's panic had varied but never really increased or abated, just different manifestations of the same terror and grief; the night terrors made up for what the daylight hours couldn't release, there were not enough startling and unwelcomed touches to flinch and flee from in a day to provide for the release from the pain that constantly plagued Reid. By the end of Reid's second day he was already tearing through the small stack of novels that Garcia had brought by along with the rest of her care packages for her 'heroes.' Garcia's literary tastes left a lot to be desired but Reid was happy to busy himself. He chatted happily with Morgan over an otherwise depressing hospital-provided dinner and he seemed, fine.

Then the last night came, ushered into early morning by whimpered cries and the soothing hushes of the older man. Where was the box for that on Strauss's form, Morgan sneered, would the panel like to know how they had a hand in reducing one of the greatest minds he'd known to this – to this fearful, small young man?

Did Reid truly improve on the trip? How had things changed that dramatically, in a week? When he'd left Reid, he still was not sleeping through the night – and had confessed to his nightmares during his interviews at Oz – and then a week later he is set to travel the continental U.S. with Rossi? No. Morgan hadn't been behind the idea. No, as usual, Morgan had been in front of Aaron Hotchner's idea as it steam-rolled over him. Morgan hadn't learned of Reid's planned departure until he spied the young man walking defeatedly from the BAU offices.

"_Hey, Reid!" Morgan called out, jogging over to the young man moving tiredly from the office._

_Reid didn't speak, just stilled his forward movement and stood looking at Morgan, his eyes darker than usual. "Are you coming back to the office?"_

_Spencer shook his head. Then Spencer opened his mouth, paused, closed it and looked around defensively, "Hotch thinks I'll be better used following Rossi on his tour – something about me getting a chance to recruit at my, well, one of my, alma maters." Even in Reid's exhaustion he was able to maintain that anger-barbed superiority. _

"_Reid, are you sleeping?" Morgan blurted, trying to keep Reid in place as he began to slink away. _

"_No better than when you shared the room with me," Reid said sadly, cringing when its ungratefulness registered in his ears._

_Derek paused, unsure of what to say next. Reid was trying to distance himself out of fear, subconscious or not, and Derek wasn't about to relent that easily. Yet he knew that if he pushed, Reid would wall him out with the other team members. _

Derek returned from his ruminations momentarily to look over the files and map in front of him. _It's about fear; fear of what he cannot have, fear of seeing himself again, fear of seeing a vision of himself – any similar vision – succeed. _Obsession/ritual-related crimes were one of Derek's specialties.. He was holding the boys, torturing them at some point. In the meantime, he has a job, a life that he goes about and he sees these women that demand that he want them, the he be in awe of what they are – what they have, and so he becomes enraged, and stabs them. Each woman, and the child, were attacked in a time that is commonly accepted as their vulnerable time within society – those hours are not safe – yet here are these individuals, that in his mind, shouldn't be claiming their space – to them they represent a façade of perfection. _He'd been bullied or been a victim himself at a prolonged point in his history._

Morgan's mind was immediately filled with images of Reid; of Reid's confession in Owen's room about the football field and Alexa Lisbon, he could see Spencer curled into his hospital-issue pillow, and shivering against an unknown cold in his fitful sleep.

_He spent years of his life subject to public shame, fear, or ridicule. He felt restrained and victimized by the very life he was being punished for not desiring. The boys are his envy and the women are his wrath for the life that he rejected, and that rejected him in turn._

For now it was all purely conjecture but it was something. It was something that didn't lead to the UnSub, or to Reid.

Morgan queued up Reid's number and waited for the screen to shift, hoping this time Reid would be present on the other end. When the voicemail picked up again, Morgan hung up in disgust and he mused for a second how much he longed to hear Reid, safe, on the other end, but how he'd come to despise the sound of Reid's recorded doppelganger.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"That's not exactly a yawn, Spencer," Mike admonished in a hushed growl across Spencer's ear. Reid looked at Michael with a curious smirk, while nervously worrying his bottom lip, "You don't like kissing me?"

Michael's hands had returned to Reid's hips, keeping him at a distance, as the young man tried to press forward. It was the only thing he could do to keep the desire for the young man at bay. "You're trouble. You know that, Spence?" The older man nipped at Reid's neck, gripping the fabric on Reid's hips, fighting the urge to claim control of the younger man. Though Michael knew if he did stray too far, exert too much control, and he would lose Reid.

Reid's voice softened with feigned sad disappointment, "Kissing me is troubling?" He squirmed closer in the older man's arms, and smiled against Michael's lips when Reid felt him relent and he could move forward, even closer to the man lay in on his side in front of Reid.

"It could be," Michael purred, pressing Reid back into the mattress and moving atop him to illustrate his point.

Spencer's breathe quickened and he struggled to hold back the panic from the instant rush of claustrophobia that hit him. Michael's weight was all but suspended above Spencer as the older man still tried to afford him space as he brought his hips to rest against the young man, placing his knees in between Spencer's hesitantly parted legs. "Spencer?" He whispered against Reid's ear, as he moved closer, feeling the younger man beneath him start to quiver, "D-don't ask me to tell you," Reid sputtered out.

Michael moved onto his side but managed to scoop Reid up into an embrace and pull him along with him, so that once again they lay on their sides facing each other.

With little hesitation, Michael's hands began traveling over Reid's still-shivering body, being careful to avoid those area that would have Reid straining up to meet his touch.

At first Reid was so caught up in the warms gliding about his body that he thought he'd imagined it floating past his ears. Then Michael's hand came torturously slow to rubbing firmly past his arousal and he heard the words as if they'd come from his own throat; a deep sigh, followed by a hushed, "please."

Reid relaxed and lay back into Michael's arm that lay underneath his shoulders and neck. Reid looked up at the older man, who'd remained laying on his side, still taking advantage of absorbing every inch of the younger man's form. Reid let out another shaky sigh when Michael's hand ran firmly, just above the buckle of his jeans. Michael nuzzled the younger man's ear, "Please," his voice sounded raw and low. One final, gentle push of Mike's nose against Reid's jaw and then he came to look desperately in Reid's eyes.

Reid tried to laugh through the nervous tension but it just came out in short bursts of nervous breath. Michael placed a quick, soft kiss on Reid's lips before resuming his supplications. This time Michael had changed his tactic and now his fingertips danced over Reid's form, playfully skipping all of the points that had Reid straining into the touch, "What?" Spencer gasped, "What do you want me to do?"

"Let me kiss you," The older man pleaded. Reid smiled warmly, happy to take the handsome older man's face in his hands and guide him closer. Michael's hands came to rest over Reid's tender touch as the younger man's hands were holding him, guiding him, as he veered from Reid's lips and began to travel down his throat, and to the first barrier of cloth.

Reid's happy surrender of the first few distances of cloth hand Michael practically salivating as he worked at the tender skin on Reid's chest. Spencer ceded button after button until it was Michael who paused. The dim lamp on the bedside table had cast a sudden yellow glow on a portion of Reid's abdomen. Michael had earned himself enough bruises in his life to know the remnants of a blood-black bruise in its phases of disappearance. Michael ran a rough fingertip over the mark and watch Reid squirm, eyes closed but threatening to flutter open at the shock.

Spencer had worried and resisted as Michael drew closer to Spencer's arousal that twitched the first time Michael's hot breath poured over him. The older man had not forgotten his earlier tactic; teasing and evading Reid, all the while releasing his own whimpers and pleas.

Michael looked up at Spencer, his eyes wide and wantonly pitiful, and then like he was pulling away some mask, his face shifted in a darkly wicked expression. Reid had no time to respond or question when Michael bowed his head and cruelly let his teeth slide along the outline of Reid's arousal. The older man continued to gain ground as Spencer gave in to each plea – each plea punctuated by Michael's evasive and teasing mouth – wheedling Spencer's clothes, and reservations, away from him.

Reid could feel dampness at the back of his neck and his brow as he clung harshly to the older man's shoulder while the other hand clung tightly to Michael's hand. Michael had reached out for Reid when the young man's breathing had began to come in short, shallow gasps when Michael gave in and ended his drawn-out, teasing ministrations and swallowed the young man's arousal to the hilt. Michael was on the verge of losing control when Spencer's hips involuntarily bucked against his lips, Reid's hand became a vice grip, holding tightly to the older man, as he cried out in release.

Michael kissed and soothed his way up Spencer's quivering body, practically vibrating from the release of his arousal but also from all of the pent up fear and anxiety. Reid fought to keep his eyes open.

Reid fought to keep his focus alert as the older man's body lay in comforting warmth next to his. Michael ran a soothing hand down Reid's lithe chest, pulling Reid's back tightly to him, moving so that they tucked perfectly into each other's shape. Michael placed airy kisses on the young man's exposed neck and shoulder, "It's time to close your eyes, Spence," Michael squeezed his arms firmly around him, "Don't doubt for a second that I won't miss you, Spencer," Michael let out a long sigh, and then as if he were trying to convince himself, he gave Reid one final kiss and whispered, "It'll be okay."

Reid drifted into sleep with memory of the soft insistenf of Michael's mint-laced kisses lingering on his lips.

It was still dark outside when a loud pounding sound on Reid's door had him crying out as his eyes burst open. Without consideration for the state of his clothes or room, Spencer rushed to the door and threw it open.

"Reid? What happened?"

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**A/N: Don't get used to that sort of thing! LOL. Hey, I filed this under H/C so I guess you gotta get a little of the 'C' at some point. Besides, Reid needs something nice before this story picks up speed. Sorry for the short delay. The longer these things get the more editing and plotting they require – got to leave myself just enough slack to hang Reid with. ;) Thank you for all of your wonderfully constructive comments! I love that I attract such sick puppies. LOL. Never fear, Keller will not rest, not even in death and I think Reid's new experience should give him plenty of material to work with. Look for the next chapter in a few days or so.**

**Thank you, thank you, and thank you so much for the continued readership, new readers, lurkers, anons, and all in between. Thank you. **


	5. Blame it on a Simple Twist of Fate

**Warnings: Drug use, discussion of the sale of illegal drugs, and moderately offensive language. Also, I feel that I should warn anyone that has a potential to be triggered by well, the discussion of the aftermath of what Reid's character is going through. This is, I guess, should be kind of an on-going warning but this one especially, I suppose. After the first chapter break, you'll see what I mean. Oh and I guess you could kind of count that as sexual content too. Do you feel sufficiently warned? Oh, and no particular episode spoilers, maybe 'Someone to Watch Over Me," and "Revelations."**

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Morgan had imagined a lot of things lying behind Reid's hotel room door but the sight that greeted him took him by surprise. Reid stood before him; breath coming in short gasps due his having been startled awake moments ago, Reid's shoes had been removed along with his belt, and red cardigan, his tie held tenuously to itself in a loose knot around Spencer's neck, and shirt halfway buttoned. It had taken a few beats before Reid realized that his black pants were just as the other man had left them – unfastened and askew. When Reid became aware of his exposure he turned and began to put his sleep-wrinkled clothes back to rights.

Derek wasn't about to let this wait and began to speak, even though Reid had yet to face him, "Reid, man, where have you been? We've been calling you ever since we came into town. Rossi said he hadn't heard from you either - that you weren't here," Reid had turned and was now beginning to look angry. Morgan wondered if he really should have added, "and Hotch is worried sick, covering it up well with plenty of his angry dead-ass stares around at those who are there, I can tell he's hurtin'." Morgan said, suddenly unsure of why he felt the need to make amends between the two men.

"I was sleeping," Reid said tersely, "I haven't done a lot of that lately, so my phone was off," Reid paused, poised to throw another verbal barb in Morgan's direction. Reid hadn't had the time to search the room for traces of Michael so he figured his best bet was to push at Morgan, wear down to that naturally short fuse of his, and have him leave quickly.

"What's your secret?" Morgan asked, pushing past Reid and through the suite door, "I know you wouldn't be using again." Morgan's eyes scanned the room, as Reid rushed to do the same, desperate to find any trace of Michael before Derek could land upon it.

"You caught me, Agent Morgan." Reid said, standing in the other man's path, "My solution to being raped and beaten is to go cruising the Tenderloin at night for illegal substances - that's definitely logic worthy of a genius-level intelligence quotient." Reid hated having to be this way with Morgan. Part of him knew Morgan meant well, but that still never made his out-of-left-field accusations, disguised as insights, any easier to take.

Morgan laughed, abandoning his search. "Okay, Reid," Morgan stepped aside to allow Reid to pass freely through the suite, "You were expected at the Valencia St. Police Station last night. I think the sooner we get there the better," Morgan clapped Reid softly on the arm and went to wait outside the suite as the younger man changed.

_Reid was defensive. Reid had gotten in his path. Reid was definitely hiding something._

#-#-#-#-#-#

The drive to the station was made in silence, as Reid was to keenly focused on his nervousness and aching curiosity. Had Michael left behind something, anything, that might at least reminded him that even with Michael gone that it didn't mean the calm went too. Calm, what a funny word to use to describe the last hours of their time together. Things had been anything but calm. Reid knew that given Michael's (correct) assumptions, he would not be the one to initiate another failed attempt at getting closer to Reid. The next move was Reid's and he knew he couldn't give it too much thought. If he thought about his first possible advance for too long he knew the moment would leave him. Reid was no stranger to the alternative situation; standing in the doorway, his hands fumbling nervously, watching full of regret as his opportunity – the object of his affections – walked out the door. It would have been that way in Los Angeles if Lila hadn't been so incredibly forward.

Reid was oblivious to their current route as his mind humorously mused on the differences in the situation. He'd panicked then in Los Angeles, and thank God he looked the way he did! His bookish demeanor allowed him extra room for error in many areas of his social interactions. Afterward, he'd passed off his guilt, and strange feelings of shame, as inexperience, and fear of the unknown. The entire kiss had been wet with mortified surprise and anxious fumbling. Then there was the guilt; guilt for coming back for more when he knew he shouldn't, when he didn't mean it, when it meant using this heartbroken young woman for his own answers. The weeks following that kiss brought ample time for Reid to tear himself apart with questions. _It was just the circumstances of the kiss that had made him feel so uneasy, right? _ Reid wouldn't get his answers until years later.

Reid got his answer in those moments that he would never confess to anyone, and it was those disgraceful thoughts that robbed him of his certainty….in everything. Keller knew what he was doing. Keller knew making Reid plead at the top of his lungs, admitting to his release, was tattooing himself on the young man's memories. It were those memories that would ensure his immortality. Beecher could fill the world with all the blonde-headed brats that he could manage but none of them would have nearly as much vitality as the seeds that Keller had sown in Reid's mind. Keller had made him feel like his entire body was one long coil of burning electricity, the searing ache he felt inside him never abated, it just changed, and grew, and spread until what had eventually felt like a painful stab dulled and the pressure fanned throughout his body, like the first injection of that demon Dilaudid into his veins.

Keller had Reid ready to accept that this shame and pain was just a side effect to be endured for feeling this way – the feeling that Lila had tried to effect in him but failed. Spencer knew all about side effects, like the dark circles under his eyes and the fever-dreams, that when he remembered them, sent him groping for that vial all over again. _It was much easier to let memories go when they were taken away from you. _ Reid wish he had drugs to excuse the fact that in the few, and infrequent times he'd been tempted to give into that weak tinge of arousal, taken himself in hand, growing closer, until as he approached the peak and – there he was. Reid's hands were no longer his own, and there were those eyes, filled with mocking kindness, growing dark with satisfaction as Reid began to tremble with his orgasm baring down on him. _I want to hear you, Dr. Reid. Let them know just what's hiding behind that badge and geeky vest. You want this._

The first time it had happened, he'd stopped and was ready to scream through the frustrated tears that clouded his vision. Then in an effort to sleep one night he'd given in. He'd conjured those eyes, the feeling of that threatening weight above him, and lay back into the comfort of his hotel room bed imagining that it was the scratchiness of that gray flannel blanket on Chris's bed. Reid had pressed the heel of his hand into the bruise that lay in center of one of his lean pectoral muscles, as he reluctantly increased the movement of his other hand beneath his shorts. The stab of aching pain coupled with the quickly overwhelming recall of Keller's actions –Reid had never found a release so immediate or complete. Yet Reid would get to enjoy it no more than in that instant, because after it had passed there was no such satisfaction that lingered – just hideous and overwhelming guilt.

Spencer should be so fortunate this time to have such a readily available amnesia, like Dilaudid. That kind of total peace was not an option – not until Michael, not until he had that warm, gravelly voice in his ear and those soothing hands lulling him into sleep. The first advances from Michael had been overshadowed by Spencer's reluctance, fear, and the specter of Keller lingering nearby. Then there was their last time together – it was as if Reid's gratitude for the placid moments had exorcised Keller from his mind just for this short amount of time. _This is how it was supposed to be._ Reid repeated it over to himself as each kiss and caress scorched through his nervous system.

Reid shifted in his seat, his cheeks growing red in the silence of the car. He looked briefly in Morgan's direction and was thankful that the older man's eyes were angrily focused on the labyrinth of one-way streets that lay in front of them. Reid's redness deepened as he thought about just the kind of memories Michael had left him with.

Before Morgan had slammed his fist into the suite door, Reid had been deep into sleep, immersed in his dream and ready to give himself over again to the dream-rendering of Michael and repay the older man's earlier attentions in kind.

Spencer felt sick with nervousness as they pulled up in front of the Valencia St. station. The area surrounding the station was a shock of Latin American color and sound; nearby a stereo blasted a Cumbia rhythm into the street, as Spencer's vision swam with the colorful murals and chalk drawings that highlighted each corner of the vibrant street. It was strange, Reid thought, to wade through this thick atmosphere only to arrive in the sterile walls of the police station. The reluctant return to the banal, yet another thing that brought Michael to mind – Reid wondered if Michael would still be there if he came back here, again. Would the bland suburban atmosphere, the little boxes on the hillside, would they eventually wear on him and he'd move on, and forget Reid in the process?

Reid's feet felt like they were made of lead when he tried to move into the area that he could see had been taken over by the BAU.

Of course, JJ was the first to see him, gasping and calling out, "Spence!" Then running to Reid to scoop him up in a motherly hug – everyone was now safe and accounted for in her mind.

Rossi and Hotch looked infinitely less enthused. Both men looked tired and frustrated, Reid was accustomed to the entire team growing into that look at some point as a case drug on, but when it was directed at him, it had Reid wishing he could turn on his heel and walk right back out of the police station.

He could. He could walk out of the station, cross the street, and then it was just down a flight of stairs, buying a ticket, and hopping on the next Daly City-bound train. For a moment Reid entertained that reality; it was just as simple as turning around and he would be back in Michael's arms.

After the team bade a quick hello to Reid they each split into different groups, scattering in all directions, some accompanied by officers and others just clutching reams of paper to be analyzed, and eventually filed.

Reid walked up to the whiteboard at the front of the room; it had been covered with photographs, maps, and a few pieces of key evidence that hinted at the UnSub's motivating pathology. The board had been divided into two sections: the growing timeline of violent blitz attacks throughout the City, and on the other side of the board was dedicated to the three male victims that had been found within the city limits. The third victim had been found this morning by the grounds crew at – Reid felt his stomach rise into his throat – the young man had been found, partly concealed by the pampas grass and tules, at the water's edge of a sand pond… There it was like some exposed secret bared for all to see – the coral-colored dome that he'd walked beneath just the night before.

Spencer's mind was racing and no sooner had he turned away from the board but Morgan came rushing into the make-shift bullpen, muttered something in Hotch's ear, and then Unit Chief made a loud announcement, "Morgan, Prentiss, I want you to come with me – we have a lead on a suspect."

The rest of the team stayed behind, preparing the necessary information and tactics for the in-coming suspect. Spencer took two looks around the station before giving into his earlier desires and walking out of the police station unnoticed.

#-#-#-#-#-#

_No one was every really happy with him. His parents had wanted their star-student and the swaggering son, one that had hurriedly married his prom-queen girlfriend after his college graduation. His parents wanted someone that would return to their town with triumph – they wanted bragging rights._

_He'd been the big man on the prestigious Bay Area university campus. He'd become a Resident Advisor to pay for his room and board on-campus, and he supported his $60k-a-year tuition with the only occupation that ensured that he had all the time and energy to remain at the top of his class – milling papers for other, less literate, undergrads, and being __**the source**__ for the best cocaine that his all-night programmers, at one of the nearby campus-based tech companies, could avail him of. _

_And it was going a lot better than you would imagine and for the longest time he maintained impeccably. Sure, there were times that he'd become so manically engrossed in something that his occasional shakes and shivers were evident but no one ever mentioned it. He was never without a cup of coffee and that was cause enough for people to excuse his occasional flightiness. And the ones that did know? Well, he'd found something to offer them that kept them quiet._

_He lived on happily until one day it all stopped._

_It was an unremarkable day, just any another drudge back to the dorm room after an early class. He'd scored a last-minute customer who seemed like an amateur but had said all the right things, and flashed the right price, so he'd popped open his stash box on the bed and gave him the first taste from his new stock. The boy left excitedly whispering to his new-found dealer about his plans for the weekend. These days, he wished he had half that energy. He'd stopped the coke when he found that he could hear it, rattling around at the back of his brain, and begging for the next line. He had enough shit floating around in his mind. He didn't need little devils screaming for snow up there too._

_He let out a tired sigh as he stuck his key in the dormitory building and flung it open. The out-dated 1970's décor of the lobby just added to his mental funk. Thank God, there was no one in the lobby because he couldn't deal with the noise. He turned slowly to his mailbox, back turned to the lobby's expanse, and extended his key – "FREEZE!"_

_This time his shaking had nothing to do with the coke and everything to do with the swarming black clouds of men, police officer in full SWAT gear, pointing their guns in his face, forcing his face into the mailboxes, and then dragging him to his knees, before he was cuffed and hauled from the building. _

_At one point he remembered a voice yelling at him, "Check him! Are you armed?"_

_Was he armed? If he hadn't been so out of his mind with fear, he would have laughed in their faces; high school valedictorian, soft-skinned, articulate, and unassuming – yeah, armed to the teeth, a regular Tony Montana._

_The trial had done little to enlighten him as to how he was deserving of this fate. _

_His parents had disowned him his sophomore year and like the blitz attack in the lobby, he had no idea what had made him so unlucky. His parents had informed of their lofty marital dreams for him practically since infancy. He was to marry his some suitably ambitious, yet demurely beautiful, young woman as soon as possible. After his first year away, his parents began concerting his room into a office, with the satisfactory promise, of course, being that it would be 'his' when he was home and needing it for business._

_During the remodel, they'd uncovered it; the loose floor board that at fourteen years old he'd weakened, eventually popped out, and proceeded to turn into his own treasure trove of all things forbidden. It started with a high-gloss fashion magazine, kept not for the nearly naked female models but for a singular perfume ad. He'd kept it for the man with the rich oak, and tantalizingly damp, skin that lay on a translucent pool raft, which made him look as though he was hovering over the crystal-blue water like some Mediterranean god in repose. The perfume pool-god had prompted the collection but what a collection it had become by the time his parents unearthed it while he was away at school. It gave them fodder for many high-decibel level fights. Well, to be fair, a fight requires at least two people, and he never said a word._

_His problems seemed to stem from neglect, if he had to guess. He'd neglected his youthful hiding place just as he had neglected his stashbox that day – leaving it open on his bed with the new stock in full view. He'd been in a hurry and besides, no one ever entered his room. He was the RA, for godsakes! His room was considered sacrosanct by the residents he watched over. In fact he considered the space so sacred, so secure, that through his carelessness, he'd also left his supplier contact sheet and paper-in-progress up within plain sight, as well. _

_Before the invading State police even had to lift a finger, they had enough in plain sight to ensure that his dormitory only for the next twenty years would be made of gray concrete and bars._

_Then the trial came and so did any classmates, former residents, and anyone else that had a grudge, or ambition, that would be satisfied by his suffering and imprisonment. And it would be downright Dickensian, hapless former gentleman on trial for something so coarse. Yeah, just like Dickens would write, except for the whole cocaine part that had his ass on the line._

_Of course, it didn't look all too dour until his public defender informed him that the District Attorney would also be tacking on an attempted murder charge. His last-minute deal had dove into his purchase and suffered a grand mal seizure for his enthusiasm which, because of his companions lack of lucidity and attentiveness, left him choking and oxygen deficient by the time medical attention had arrived. The last-minute student had been put in a medically-induced coma until he had detoxed and was cleared of any more risks for seizure. When the extent of his injuries had been revealed the charge stuck as involuntary manslaughter._

_Twenty-five years – up for parole in seven._

_Inside, it took less than seven days for him to fall prey to each of the different prison factions, in turn. What little he'd come in with was promptly (and forcefully) redistributed among the first few factions that he was unlucky enough to run up against. What an apropos turn of phrase! Yes, that happened too. He never was much for negotiation and he knew that kind of wit would get him absolutely nowhere. What was that they say about casting pearls before swine? Well, spouting witticisms at these overly-muscled and angry lot would be more like throwing rocks at wild boar – incredibly ill-advised._

_Just like everything else in his life, the attack came by total, ambushing surprise. _

_He remembered it was a Saturday, that stuck with him most of all; not the foolhardy shame and guilt, not the pain, humiliation, and certainly not, those sad green eyes that were constantly in the periphery during the attack. What a perfect and logical legal system with a totally reasonable solution to his crime! A professional paper-writer and college-level drug dealer would definitely be crimes deserving of multiple rape and a violent assault._

_He waited for those eyes to disappear; he waited for the moment that the owner of those eyes would truly bore into him, he would wait for an attack that day, and he waited until the day he was paroled for an attack that would never come, not from the possessor of those eyes. Those green eyes evaded him – they evaded him until one day – a Saturday – they sat down across from him…here in the City, on the outside. _

_After he'd been paroled, he'd come to the City looking for work. He'd heard from a few guys that there were opportunities there and you might luck onto someone who was forgiving, or had a record themselves._

_And as promised, he found an old bar in a popular tourist neighborhood where the owner had a rapsheet from his days as a student activist in the 1960s. The barkeep had spent just too much time sitting-in and occupying Federal buildings that, like him, eventually his luck would have to change. The barkeep had done his sitting-in one evening with a pocket full of marijuana cigarettes and a few LSD-soaked sugar cubes straight from the stash of Timothy Leary. The barkeep was supposed to head to a consciousness-raising session and poetry slam after the sit-In, instead he found himself sitting in the lock-up await a trial and sentencing. _

_The barkeep was understanding, "Just a bum rap, man." He said patting him on the shoulder after giving him a quick once over. He was a shy and confused young man who'd since packed on considerable weight and muscle during his time 'inside.' Each ounce, each kilo, of that added weight was packed with his slow-boiling rage and resentment. _

_At first, the job seemed like an answer to his prayers, a strange stroke of luck in an otherwise shitty existence. But then reality hit, every day and every night it was the same faces jubilantly going on and on about their plans, opportunities, dreams and disappointments. He watched the women come in after their day in the financial center and the other women who came in for a few numbing shots before or after their work in one of the nearby clubs._

_He hated them. He hated all of them. He hated the foolish women whose sharp pointed heels bent underneath them when they were too drunk to stand properly. He hated the shrieks they let out after completing a drink with their friends. He hated the loud slam of the shot-glasses on the wooden bar. _

_Most of all, he hated him. He hated those green eyes. Those green eyes that had now turned their favor onto someone else – someone that, if he were honest, was the kind of boy his parents would have wanted as well. But no, this boy would have still been too effeminate for their tastes with his hair that needed cutting and his purse-type bag. _

#-#-#-#-#-#

Reid had fully intended to buy a ticket and hop on the next train headed to Daly City, just ten minutes or so away, but when the #47 bus passed him and he read the end destination as the wharves via North Beach, he knew that would be the best place to start. Michael had been cagey at best about his employment and hours but Reid hoped that he'd have enough shreds of good fortune to happen into his path.

After no success in City Lights, he headed across the street and into the stained-glass Beatnik bar. Reid noticed Michael's acquaintance was working the bar, as usual. Reid approached the bar but before he could utter a word the man turned, "Spencer, right?"

The older man was in an uncustomary chipper mood, "You just missed Michael. He came by to drop off some cash he owed me but if you wait, he'll be back."

"Thanks, Allan." Reid said, trying to not to let his anxiousness show through.

Allan poured Reid a drink and set it in front of him, smiling, "Michael tell you about how we met?"

**A/N: I've re-written this note a few times, each time editing out spoilers that I've been tempted to spill. So I'll make this note brief and thank you all once again for all of your time, interest, and kindly constructive words. Next chapter is already in the works and will be up mid-week. Thank you and see you again in a few days.  
**

**Also should probably give credit for the title, so thank you Mr. Bob Dylan for writing that great song, "Simple Twist of Fate." Don't know why it always reminds me of North Beach but it does.  
**


	6. Waiting to Come Down

**WARNINGS: Graphic description of crime scene photos, foul language, and the tendency to break the fourth wall. Spoilers for all of the usual Reid-centric or at least mention of the content in "Jones," and "Revelations."**

* * *

"So," Prentiss said, sideling up to Morgan as they dropped outside of Hotch's earshot, "How's Reid doing?"

Morgan dropped the sunglasses over his eyes, squinting at the bright sun, and then shaking his head sadly at Emily, "Pretty Boy's havin' some trouble."

"Well, no kidding," Morgan looked more than a little surprised when Prentiss' voice came out with a spiteful edge, "Morgan, where does Reid spend his time even when he has time off?" Emily didn't wait for him to answer before following with, "He's at the BAU. He grew up here. Reid suffered an intense trauma – despite what Hotch may think – and sending him away from us…" Emily's voice trailed off as her personal motivations and concerns bled through to her analysis.

"Emily, I'm not happy that he went away either and this is less than perfect," Morgan took less than a beat before blurting out, "I think, Reid's found a different way of coping."

"You think he's using?" Emily followed his reasoning.

"I think he's hiding something, and Emily, if I had met me answering the door like that-" Derek paused, casting a smooth glance at Prentiss and then cracking a wide smile in self-effacement, "I would have never come to the door looking like that because there would have been," he cleared his throat, "company."

Prentiss looked at Morgan with a smirk, "You think Reid is what, dating a drug dealer?"

"Maybe he isn't using, maybe it's just the new…" Morgan stalled, withholding a definitive pronoun choice – not unlike the man in question.

"How do you think someone met Reid?" Prentiss asked as if to disprove his theory, "You think in between fits of that behavior you witnessed in the hospital that he's, what, hitting the Castro clubs during insomnia binges?"

"I think something sent Reid, looking like that, to the door. C'mon, Prentiss I don't need to tell you that's not even normal for an even-half-together Reid," Morgan lowered his voice as they approached their vehicle and all climbed inside.

"You think he's involved with someone?" Emily continued, as Hotch had opted to travel with the lead detective in the other unmarked, black SUV.

I think that after what Keller did to him – after something like – your sense of so much becomes skewed. Besides, if something is so meaningless, what's to stop you from giving it away?" Morgan was happy to focus on the road and hide behind his reflective lenses with that admission. Emily's face darkened at Derek's conjecture. _Reid was much more sensible than that. He was too smart to put himself in a situation when he could become a victim again._

#-#-#-#-#-#

_Reid was paralyzed. He could hear screams of pains and whimpers in the interim of each blow. Reid could feel his body shaking with each searing hit to the sole of his foot. He could hear the wooden chair that he sat in creaking and scraping on the floor. The smell of a carcass, several days old, decaying slowly in the corner overwhelmed his nostrils and he felt nauseous. He knew that he was crying hard, choking on his tears mixed the pain of each unexpected blow. He was screaming at the top of his lungs and yet he sat inside himself, quiet, composed, and curious for what he would see once he had unclenched his eyelids._

"_That's not good enough, boy!" He heard the voice of Raphael, but when he opened his eyes the voice shifted in a slow expansion and deepening of tone to that of the BAU Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner. _

_Aaron Hotchner sitting in that chair in front of him with Reid's bruised and aching foot in his hand. "You know they're never going to accept that!" The leather strap came down on the ball of Reid's foot, wrapping around his toes and blistering the crease just above his toes. Reid screamed again and tried to jerk his foot away, which only earned him another blasting pain to his raw foot._

"_You're guilty," Hotchner looked at him plainly, as if frustrated by the obviousness of the situation. _

"_He hurt me." Reid cried, as Hotchner struck him again. _

_Hotchner stood abruptly and let Reid's foot fall unprotected to the rough wooden boards of the floor. He then turned to the table in the corner, where the animal had been butchered earlier, and retrieved a fluid-soaked file folder and thrust a picture in Reid's face. "No, this is what someone who was hurt by Christopher Keller looks like!"_

_Even in dreams, Reid could not block out the horribly twisted and broken form of Bryce Tibbots; black and blue, covered with scratches, open wounds, and his neck at that stomach-churning unnatural angle. _

"_I'm s-sorry." Reid cried as Hotchner thrust a sharp finger into the yellowing bruise on Reid's chest. _

"_What for, boy? Sorry because you gave in? Because, better than giving in, you begged for it in the end!" Hotchner hit Reid's bruise again, striking Reid with such force that he fell backward onto the floor._

_The surprise and force from hitting the floor, drove all of Spencer's breath from his chest and he began to gasp like a fish out of water. Still, Reid sat inside himself, still and quiet, observing as the horror passed in front of his eyes and he felt his own chest rising and falling, struggling to gain his breath._

"_I'm sorry," Reid cried again but the cold detached Reid inside of him knew that it was only a loud cry to his ears. He was sure it didn't even register with the older man._

_Hotchner knelt down next to Reid's spasm-wracked body, "Sorry that you killed you? Do you want to die, Spencer?" He pressed his hand to Reid's chest, forcefully stilling it into shallow, soft breathes._

_Reid began to choke and the detached view inside of him knew what came next. He felt the cold but it did not touch him. He sat there, inside himself, as his body's warmth dispersed, completely unconcerned. _

Spencer's eyes rolled open. He indeed was on his back but alarmingly, not in his hotel room. Well, he wanted to be alarmed but he couldn't. The room felt foreign to him, but then again, so did his skin. He felt happy. He was happy that even though he was in the darkness and in a room he didn't know. Reid let his eyes dim a little as the black space in front of him shifted and danced before his eyes. From the darkness color emerged; constellations, stars, and track of dusty glitter that he explained as a trail of galaxies.

He couldn't move his arms but he wasn't really interested in moving them either. Something was holding him tightly and rather than panic, he was content to bask in the security of it.

He knew he was here but he wasn't entirely sure what that meant. What was he supposed to be doing here? He wasn't troubled by the lack of his ability to answer that question but allowed himself a quiet snicker of amusement as his thoughts floated out from his eyes and danced before him. He watched as each letter, big, bright, and fluffy, as it pulled itself from his eyes and spun in front of his vision. The stars had faded and now he was sliding down the letter; rolling down the pitched sides of the capital 'A' and feeling himself thrown from hump to hump on the soft bounce of an 'M'.

Reid was content to allow the dark to dance around him.

Outside of the small darkened room lay an expansive cement underground area. He didn't know it, and he didn't care to know it, but Reid's surroundings did not offer nearly as much promise as the images that entertained his thoughts.

#-#-#-#-#-#

The team's black SUVs and several police cars pulled up in front of a small white house that sat on a street split between Daly City and San Francisco. All of the houses on the street looked the same; brightly colored, pastel homes, with a one-car garage, an iron-work gate painted to match the house, and in this driveway – a black 1975 Harley-Davidson. Presently the motorcycle was being worked on by a man with hair that looked like he'd either just joined the military or was waiting for it grow back out after a too-close cut. The agents got out of their SUV, Derek being the first to call out, "Michael Peralta? FBI! Drop it and step away from the vehicle."

Mike's face was pale but cooperative. He'd learned to work obediently under this kind of pressure years ago. His wrench went clattering to the ground and he held his arms out to the side.

Derek rushed forward and felt a surge of frustration when the suspect bent compliantly under his pressure, going fluidly to the ground under Derek's guidance.

"Give me a reason," Derek growled in the other man's ear, when he felt a shred of hesitation from the other man, before thrusting a knee in his back and bringing him to his stomach on the concrete driveway.

It wasn't without some effort that Morgan then pulled the cuffed man to his feet and pushed him toward the squad car.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"We should send someone in to question him that he's not going to feel threatened by?" Prentiss shot a disapproving glare at Morgan as he'd just put forth his array of reasons for why it should be him in there.

"Is Reid here?" Hotch asked coolly, knowing the reaction that was obvious to find him.

Morgan's fist hit the conference room table, "Hotch, you've got to be kidding me?"

"You brought him in, Morgan. You don't think he can handle this?" Hotch said, pushing Morgan for a compelling piece of information to support his protestations.

"I think I'm sick of watching him be batted around rather than you getting out from behind your desk." Morgan's eyes were like steel as he kept them on his superior.

"And I think telling your Unit Chief how to do his job is a quick way to put an end to yours," Hotch returned the critical gaze. "Why am I a better candidate, SSA Morgan?"

Morgan bit back his desire to smarmily point out the obvious lack of trauma on Hotch's person in this regard but knew he'd already pushed farther than was wise. "I think any of us would be a better candidate than Reid. We're not really much of a profiling unit if our way of breaking a suspect is by throwing our most sexually appealing team member at them, and then taking notes while they spill their secrets, as they rip him apart." Morgan said with complete seriousness, not even realizing the obvious gaff.

Prentiss laughed and interjected before Hotch could hone in on the fight in Morgan's words, "We had no idea that you felt that way about young Dr. Reid, Derek! Most sexually appealing team member, huh?"

Derek was still sputtering for a comeback the he barely caught glimpse of the quick smile that Hotch had cracked, and then hastily tried to conceal with his standard glower. "I'll take your suggestion, Morgan and let you work on extricating your foot from your mouth before you have to start taking notes."

Hotch departed the conference room and walked across the hall and entered the room where Michael was being held.

"Rounding up the usual suspect, huh?" Michael said, nodding at Hotch.

"You think this is some random toss of the Federal net?" Hotch asked, as he sat down at the table that Michael had been cuffed to.

"I know it is," Michael said, staring right back at him. "It shoulda been pretty clear to you back at my house. I am used to this shit by now. Any time anything goes wrong in this city, or in a city nearby – I'm surprised you Fedfucks aren't knocking on my door every time some shit goes down in the East Bay. Though you got a good crop of 'usual suspects' in Oakland too."

Hotch pushed a single sheet of paper across the table at Michael, "Are these all cases of mistaken identity too? Were you one of those prisoners that spent their time moaning about how they were framed?"

Michael laughed, "''Cause your Ivy-League-clenched-ass would know so much about what happens behind those walls? You visit all the guys you put away, bring 'em more soap?" Michael wasn't doing well at restraining the feelings of rage that were heating up within him at the reminder of that situation. He hated the damn cuffs most of all.

Aaron slid the first victim's photo across the table at Michael – a photograph of a naked, blanched young man. The victims had shown signs of forceful restraint and torture. The young man in the photograph was missing patches of hair and skin from various parts of his body. The UnSub had cut each of the victims at some point. The first victim – the victim displayed in the photo – had his throat slit shallowly, allowed to bleed out as the UnSub continued his torture, until his victim failed to illicit the kinds of responses that he required.

Michael exhaled in disgust and turned his head away from the picture in front of him and then whipped his eyes quickly to Hotch, "Are fucking kidding me? Do you even know what I was locked up for in the first place?"

Hotch pushed the photo closer to Michael making room for the other beige file folder. "The first was for grand larceny. You hotwired and stole a neighbor's car and then promptly totaled it in the process of getting away."

"I was sixteen," Michael said still sounding angry, that kind of angry that seemed especially reserved for alpha-males in danger of displaying some kind of vulnerable emotion, "Hotwiring a car doesn't look like that!" Hotch took note of how Michael couldn't bear to look at the photograph when he had gestured at it for emphasis of his point.

"The second time, you were of age and it was for: gambling, reckless driving, assault, and being an accessory to a murder." Hotch continued to stare unaffected at the other man, his voice barely deviating from its standard cool.

"I raced cars. We were street racing, some gangbangers dropped in on us. We didn't want any shit from them – we never did – but they'd been after my cousin for some bullshit debt. We raced for it. When my cousin won, the cholo pulled a knife. I went at him. He was stabbed. End of story. I did my time. Why the fuck do you think I'd do something like this so, I could go back?"

"Big guy like you," Hotch made a point to look him over with an appraising and slightly lascivious eye. "It must have been so humiliating to submit to someone stronger than you." Hotch easing into his cruelly striking observation.

Michael interjected, "No, I'm just not interested in giving you guys a reason to hold me. Any other time, I'd have gladly shown Agent Morgan the fight he was lookin' for."

"How long before they raped you?" Hotch said, poking the edge of the crime scene photograph into the other man's hand that was resting, cuffed to the bar on the table.

"What's that last date on that sheet of yours?" Michael starred defiantly at Hotch.

"July 29th 2003," He read out. "You fatally stabbed a fellow inmate…and by all accounts, he was in your circle of allies….lovers' quarrel?"

"You've got pictures -want to bring in the murder weapon? I'll give you a demonstration. Then you can go knowing you finally kept me locked up for good." Michael's fist was clenched. _This was totally fuckin' typical. _He should have known that tired but beautiful young man was an anomaly - fate had screwed up someone's address and dropped the handsome young man into his life instead.

Now life seemed as if it was poised to collect its debts. Spencer had been the equivalent of a bank error in his favor – an error he had foolishly enjoyed - and now the bank of life was calling to collect on the currency that he was never meant to possess. For a moment he had let his guard down – he'd been trying to do what his teacher had suggested – he'd tried to imagine himself without that experience. Michael had dared to live like the weight of his past crimes had no consequence over his present relationships. Even if Spencer was still in town, there was no way that he had any hope of seeing him now. This asshole would find something to stick him with. They were probably tossing his house as he sat there. He knew if they looked long enough they'd probably find something objectionable, or at least a rolled joint stashed in a book. He knew it was foolish to think that he would get out of this unscathed.

"Have you already found someone new to pay for what happened to you? Where is he?" Hotch broke into the other man's thoughts with this presumptuous assertion.

Michael looked down at the picture of the young man in the soft, damp sand with the pampas grass and tules lying about him. _This man actually thought he'd done this, done this several times, in fact, and he wanted details. _Michael couldn't resist, "You so interested in the goings-on in prisons, I'll tell you something; there are guys who get locked up dealing drugs illegally and then there are the hacks, and the cops like you, that put us there. Those hacks, cops, and those dumfucks in orange, they're all dealing the same drug. But when you sell drugs, or move drugs, and you got a badge, it's all good. Now, I think there are probably some hacks that get into it because they know they'll have access to drugs – hazard of the job and all of that. They go the legit way. You ever think it might be the same way for your type? Ever find yourself enjoying the job too much? The idea of being a butcher was beneath you, too blue-collar, especially for you, and so you sit in your office and feel like your different because you get paid and dress fancy to imagine what it would be like to cut someone open." Michael finished his own analysis of the profiler, looking at him in the eye. "It doesn't take much imagination for you, does it? You know what it's like to want what they go out and get. I'm enjoying this, really but I have work coming up – you charging me with somethin'?"

"We can hold you for the next two days if we like," Hotch looked down as if disinterested in discussing such banal details, "You think that we get off on our work? You're saying that we do this job so we can voyeuristically partake of your crimes?" Aaron sounded serious, slightly angry which had not-so-subtle grin spreading across Michael's face. Aaron got to his feet and walked over to the camera at the corner of the room and then unplugged it. "I think my colleagues are all out to lunch anyhow." Hotch said sitting back down at the table, his voice had morphed into a sensuously edged knife, "I don't have to ask you how it felt. I know how it felt. You think this job is good you should sit in on one of our lectures they make us attend – two hours of excruciating detail," Hotch broke into a rare smile, "You know how hard that was?"

"Oh, I can imagine," Michael said, cocking his head to the side – visibly sizing up the older man's sincerity.

"We had a young man come in a few years back – same anger excitation style – and he came to us before he committed the crime. He wanted us to explain it to him - to make it stop – to make him stop. We missed the bus on that one. Best advice would have told him to study hard and live with his eye on Quantico. He calls me every so often, you know," Hotch had lowered his voice and moved closer to the table, and to Michael, "He calls to tell me about his fantasies. He lays them out in the most colorful of details, I can hear him out of breath as soon as he begins. He does it because he wants me to explain them to him. I can hear him on the other end shifting and out of breath the entire time. I tell him just what he wants to hear – all of it perfectly textbook – but you're right," Hotch nodded, knowingly, "it's all about how you say it."

"You're kidding, right?" Michael said, still staring hard trying to decipher Hotch's deadpan delivery of such horrible connotations. "You know what most guys inside do all damn day, Agent? They watch TV. They love some of those sick shows – especially the one with that smokin' chick that's a cop – the one whose mom was one of those Old Hollywood stars. You don't think some of those games stay with us too? You're full of shit." Michael's voice was low and hearty with forced amusement, though Michael was pretty sure once he let down the faux jocular affability that he'd lose it and hit this guy. He was talking a good game but he still couldn't see himself out of this one – somehow Hotch would retain him in his clutches, regardless of initial innocence.

"Then you won't be surprised when you finally give me what I need to know," Hotch withdrew the information he'd spread out in front of Michael and pushed a simple yellow notepad towards him, "Then save us both the next sixty-some hours and tell us where you keep them - wrap this up in the nice hour that you're used to."

Michael looked down at his wrist and realized for the first time that his watch was missing. He mentally replayed the night before, removing it, setting it on the bedside table before lowering himself down onto the bed next to Spencer. _Chalk it up to another loss. _"I have nothing to tell you. I've been with someone for the last three nights," Michael sighed.

"Give me his name and as soon as he corroborates you story you're out of here," Hotch nudged the notepad again for emphasis and then watched in stomach-sinking shock as the other man wrote down the address and number of Reid's room. He then wrote down Reid's first name, underlining it twice and shoved it back at Hotch.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, so this is a shorter update, just to get us all on the same page as far as where everyone is and what they're doing – well, sorta. What's going on with Reid? Oh we'll know soon enough. I'm sorry if this was heavy on the sarcasm or if that seemed out of character for someone of those involved. That aside, thank you again so much for your continued comments, followings, and just generally being willing to give me those few minutes of your day. I seem to have hit my stride as far as willingness to write so hopefully the quality is coming through too. Again, comments, conjecture, critiques, and all other forms of positive participation are wholly welcomed and appreciated. Look for an update around the weekend time….with less jumping around this time, I promise.**


	7. Lost in the Fog

**WARNINGS: Explicit discuss of drug-use, moderate torture, and murder. Ah, a light Saturday morning! LOL. Also, major spoilers for the Tim Curry two-parter (Our Darkest Hour & The Longest Night) and the David Keradine two-parter (No Way Out Part I & II-The Evilution of Frank). Also, yes the effects of the drug in question are embellished slightly but I figure if the original writers can take those kind of factual liberties with Ketamine, why not juice up the potential effects of its sister drug. This next bit goes without saying because really, I write about rape and murder but don't need to tell you guys not to go out and do it but just to cover my own ass: Don't do drugs. They will rot your brain. Drugs are bad, m'kay? M'kay. Now that we've got all that squared away, happy reading! **

* * *

_Reid wanted to move. And when he was lifted from whatever peg or fixture, that kept his arms achingly above his head, and dragged from the small room and tossed onto what felt like jumble of heavy linen dropcloths, he felt relieved even by that involuntary movement. Spencer's sense of smell had come to drive his brain. Reid was so reliant on his sight, normally, that the idea of panicking when his vision blurred and became indecipherable to his minds – well, it occurred to him to panic. It occurred to him in the same way that the panic at the overwhelming unknown that surrounded him should have brought about a reaction – some emotion – but he remained detached. The movement – being dragged by a firm pair of hands that did not hesitate to seek purchase in his skin – should have elicited a struggle, or something. It occurred to him but he was much too lost in the sensation. The pain had opened up a whole other realm of visions. _

_First, his vision swam red with the pain. The constellations in his vision grew angry, spun faster, and darted at him. He could see his suffering. It was visualized there, in those elaborate, colorful vortexes swirling before his eyes._

_The scrapping of the linen on his cheek sucked him into a suck of beige linen-quicksand. Reid was drowning, he was being consumed, and all he could do was open his mouth in wonder. Would he really die? He was sinking into the sand. He was being pushed. The pain was not isolated to the discomfort of the rough cloth on his skin but now he ached – something burned. He was being swallowed by the sand and he opened his mouth, asking it to take him in – swallow him whole. He tried to tell the cloth as much. Maybe if he consumed it, it in turn would understand to consume him._

_Reid's teeth ground violently on the rough industrial cloth. He could smell chemicals and he could taste a sting of stale copper each time his teeth bit down. He wanted to beg as the scorching heat at his back threatened to take him before the sand could cover him completely._

Reid had hung there for hours, in that tiny, dark room hidden in the bowels of a neglected building. When Allan had returned, he'd wasted no time in retrieving Reid from the dark compartment and laying him out on a series of soiled industrial drop clothes. The floor was a sea of red moth-eaten carpet that at one time had been grand. Much like the rest of the building that Reid was being kept in; the building had once been a source of grandeur and awe-inspiring luster. As it was, the building had been sold and passed from slumlord to slumlord, growing ever deeper into a state of decay.

Word got around, it always did, that it was good location for downlow deals and bit of privacy if one needed it. Allan had known the right guy – he always did – that's what time on the inside did for a man. If you didn't come in connected, well – you couldn't make it through time without those connections – and by the time you left you had a whole array of 'that one guy' that could make it happen.

The shoddy security company hired by the current slumlord had brought their keys to a South San Francisco hardware store – an independent place – owned by two bleeding hearts that fell for Joe's sob story faster than any mark on the street. Joe now had access to every copied key that passed through the old folks' hardware shop. Joe had been 'that guy' on the inside – he could get you anything, for a price. Allan would have paid him in a pound of flesh from each of his meals if it had come to that. Though Joe never wanted any of _those_ details, he had no ethics to speak of, but he just didn't want the added hassle of being picked up by the cops for some petty thing he didn't give two shits about – _just 'cause you want a gun, don't mean I gotta know who you gonna off with it._

That was the location.

The drugs were infinitely easier to come by. The City (and the surrounding suburbs) had over two hundred pharmacies, bodegas, and other outlets where dextromethorphan could be purchased painlessly and in discrete quantities. It didn't take a chemist to separate the wheat from the chaff – removing the artificial colors, flavors, and other crap that they included to thwart abuse. After very little effort he was left with snow-white powder that was bitter as hell on its own, but when mixed with alcohol, it was barely distinguishable over the burn of the booze.

The idea had occurred to him one night when he'd watched one of those hapless amateurs come stumbling out of the pub bathroom; face ashen gray, struggling to remain upright, and looking rather green about the gills. The boys he wanted were already barfing their guts up so the fleeting wave of nausea caused by the dextromethorphan would be barely noticeable. A happy side effect, quite literally, was the drug's tendency to make his victims incredibly willing. Before their world changed completely and they were thrown into deep visual and auditory hallucinations, the drug made his victims enthusiastically willing. They thought nothing strange about him helping them outside – they were grateful for it – and they were so happy to be slid into the cab of his small pick-up truck. One boy had kindly massaged his shoulder as he navigated the short distance to the abandoned bank, thanking him for taking such good care of his sloppy drunk self. The boy kept rubbing his shoulders as he reclined in the backseat, able to talk about nothing more than how happy he was to avoid the 91-Owl bus that took him forever to get home.

It had gotten too easy. The police didn't care about the victims he'd chosen and they certainly didn't care to pick up on any of the easy leads. For awhile, he was convinced that if he was going to get any recognition whatsoever he would have to drop his next kill on the stairs of the San Francisco Chronicle building, like a cat laying the head its latest conquest at its owner's feet. Yes, he didn't want to admit it but it was the City that owned him. He did what he did for it. The world had denied their reunion for too long and now it was time for everyone to stand in awe of his work.

He would make a little deal each time he walked out the door with the blade concealed in his worn leather jacket. If they catch me this time, if someone stops me, or notices me – I'll stop. No one ever noticed until he was long gone from the scene. The victim always kept quiet just long enough for him to run.

It wasn't enough! That's when he came back to the bank. He'd snatch them in public, silencing their companions, and bring them back to the bank. The last boy only needed the drug in the end. Yet another delightful side effect of the increase in serotonin in their brains – the risk of priapism. They'd get a splitting pain behind their eyes before they would get the release they sought. They didn't enjoy his attention – he was certain of that – but seeing them desperately aroused without any of the emotion that accompanied it – it was often too much. Eventually, he too would get lost in the sensation of it all and lose his focus. He'd become sloppy and what had begun as controlled cuts and strikes would devolve into a screaming frenzy.

The drug kept them lucid but stupid – thrashing their head about and mumbling unintelligible questions – until Allan had enough.

He stood back and admired his latest catch. He wouldn't drop this one on the Chronicle's doorstep. No, this catch belongs somewhere special – like the stoop of one, Michael Peralta.

#-#-#-#-#-#

SSA Aaron Hotchner stared at the yellow notepad as if Michael had just thrust a venomous snake across the table at him.

Rossi had just arrived at the station and JJ had escorted him into the viewing alcove off of the interrogation room just as the pad had crossed the table into Aaron's hands.

"Oh my god, Spence!" JJ let out a hushed cry, clapping one hand over her mouth as Rossi quickly exited the small alcove and returned to their workspace. Emily was sitting at her desk working on paperwork. Derek had a pair of white headphones hanging from his ears as he turned his focus to a pile of months-old SFPD case files of potential crimes tied to their UnSub.

Rossi strode to Derek's desk and picked up his music player and roughly yanked the headphones from their port. "Where's Reid? You were the one that was supposed to bring him in. Where is he?"

"What the hell, Rossi!" Derek pulled the buds from his ears and stared at Rossi, taken off-guard and completely offended. "Yeah, man. I picked him up a few hours ago. He was here when I left with Hotch to make the arrest. He isn't here now?"

"No," Rossi said, hurriedly gathering his things, "and our suspect just wrote down his name and hotel information, when –"

Derek hadn't waited for an explanation or for Rossi to expound before he was on his feet and headed in the direction of the interrogation room.

When Morgan flung open the door, Hotch was open-mouthed, mid-question when Derek up-rooted the newly uncuffed Michael and pushed him into the mirrored glass, forearm to the other man's throat. Michael reacted on instinct and flung out a punch from his side, glancing Morgan as he pulled back in time and used Michael's momentum to throw him to the floor. But Derek didn't get much further until several officers, Hotch, and Rossi rushed into the fray and pulled them from each other. Michael's face was now bleeding and he spat the blood that ran into his mouth in Morgan's direction, "What the fuck is your problem? You guys letting the inmates run the asylum?"

Rossi and Hotch had to jerk Morgan backward to keep him from landing another injury to Michael when he surged forward again. "Where the hell is he?" Hotch looked alarmed when Morgan's voice came out scratchy and strained. He'd only seen Morgan this irrationally angry once before, when even Garcia couldn't draw a decent (or civil) response from him. In that case it had been a little girl. A girl that he had sworn to protect before her father was murdered in front of both their eyes. Like the Hotch's turn with the Hollow Creek Killer, no one would ever know exactly what transpired between William Flynn and Agent Morgan. But Hotch knew, he knew because he'd walked those steps. Yet there was something different about Morgan's motivations. A difference that Aaron was reticent to name but he knew did not bode well for Michael.

"Where is he?" Morgan growled, looking at the man having his wounds nursed by an officer.

"Where's who? I've already told you guys, I don't have a clue who or what you're looking for." Michael tilted his head back, as the officer had determined that it wasn't so much the scrape but the hit to his nose that had sprung the red liquid flowing in abundance.

"Quit playing dumb!" Morgan yelled at Michael, ready to strike again and waiting for Hotch to relax his hold.

Michael laughed, causing the blood to bubble in his nose as he leaned forward to look at Morgan, "It ain't an act, man. I don't have the first clue as to what you Fed fucks want."

"Where's Reid!" Morgan growled through clenched teeth.

Hotch momentarily released Morgan's arm to reach over to the table and spin the notepad in Michael's direction. "Him. Where's he?"

Michael's eyes darkened as he pulled the pieces together in his mind and then he looked at Morgan with an altogether different kind of hateful disdain, "Oh, I get it. He said he was leaving town," and then cleared his throat before delivering the next information squarely to Morgan, "I spent the night with him last night. I've spent the last few nights with him, and he wasn't asleep for most of it so, I am sure that leaves me with a more than solid alibi. He told me a lot of things – like how he wasn't sleeping – he never mentioned you though." Michael may have still been bleeding but he was beginning to enjoy himself. The look on the other man's face revealed that he'd struck a nerve, Michael continued, "Why do you look so pissed? Are you the reason he can't seem to close his eyes?"

Derek wasn't going to wait to exploit a weakness in Hotch and Rossi's grip, he jerked forward and launched himself at Michael again.

Michael knew these moves too: a hack holding each arm, as someone took a swing at his exposed middle – this guy must have been a pig first before moving up the Federal ladder. Michael let his feet drop out from under him, giving the officers no other option than to let him go, onto the ground, and place their hands on the approaching Derek Morgan, keeping him from coming to rest over his intended target.

"Morgan!" Hotch barked, "In the conference room now, that's an order." Rossi stared at the whole situation in disbelief. The three of them left the room as the officer re-cuffed Michael to the interview table.

When he finally made it clear to the doting officers that he was refusing care for his injuries, they left the interrogation room, leaving Michael alone with his thoughts. He sat in the room, that once it was vacated, reverberated with the sounds of his own low, quick breathes and incessant mechanical tick of a clock.

Michael folded one arm on the table in front of him and lay his head down on it until it occurred to him just what he had settled his arm upon. Michael raised his head and looked over the photograph in front of him. How could they think that he'd do this? Were they really this desperate for leads that they were dragging the neighborhoods hoping to catch a few legitimate criminals in their net and then just throw the rest of the ill-begotten catch back? There was a man in his city doing _this._ He'd made his hunting grounds in Michael's backyard. For many minutes, when Morgan or Spencer's image came to mind, all he could think about was how angry he was. Now he had a mental image to correspond with each of Spencer's cringes from his touch or those body-wracking shivers that rolled through him in his light sleep that he had to be coaxed into.

It didn't make sense, why would the other guy have allowed them to stay on the force together? It wasn't like even the most corrupt of hacks to stand for criminal activity amongst themselves that left them open to be victimized. No way they'd leave someone like that on the team if he was attacking his own. Michael was fixated on his jealousy. Then just as soon as he went to assuage his anger with the soothing 'he's already gone.'

Michael's eyes came to rest on the floor beneath the table as he noticed Agent Hotchner's crime scene photographs that had fallen to the floor during Morgan's attack. The kid in the picture couldn't be over twenty-five and even through the frozen look of anguish on the boy's face, Michael could tell that when the blood still ran warm through his veins, well, he was probably a pretty sweet kid. He had that same sort of open and pleasing look that Spencer displayed even in the depths of fear. Michael continued to stare at the photograph. He could hear Spencer's worried pleas and then very suddenly, the realization hit him like a pail of ice water, when all of the pieces, inferences, and implications fell into place. The man they wanted – the man who did this – was still missing and they didn't have the slightest clue how to find him. Until moments ago, he was there best lead. He was the close of their case. He was the best idea they had and now Spencer was missing.

#-#-#-#-#-#

The air in the conference space was thick with emotion. Derek was still seething with the ruined release of his anger, preferably expressed across the face of the smug man the interrogation room. Rossi had already stepped between the two men and was ready to jump in, if necessary but not so secretly, praying that it didn't. Before Hotch or Morgan could express their thoughts the door was opened and in walked Emily Prentiss.

"Sir," She turned to Hotch, her nose wrinkling involuntarily at the palpable tension, "we just received the toxicology results on the most recent victim." Emily shook her head and handed a packet of papers to the Unit Chief, "All of the victims, they thought to test, had come back clean any drug. This latest victim, sir. He's drugging them with a dissociative hallucinogen, most commonly found in over-the-counter cough syrups, dextromethorphan.

Rossi was the first to speak, "Aaron," Rossi looked like he had been tasked to deliver yet unknown morbid news, "The man who killed Jason Gideon's girlfriend," Rossi paused trying to proceed delicately, "Ketamine was his drug of choice, wasn't it? You've done some research on it no doubt. You know that these young men were fully aware while he did this. They may not have understood the situation, that is pretty much a certainty, with the amount of drugs listed here. They knew they were dying but they would have reacted like you would expect," Rossi paused, trying to avoid the obvious ending to each of those sentences, '_Reid will be OK._'

Derek was quick to pick up on the need to return his focus to pursuits outside of their already explored prospects. "He isn't the typical anger-excitation offender, what does this drug make possible for him that another wouldn't?"

"Well, for one thing, it would allow them to interact with the UnSub long after the pain threshold would have most going into shock. In large doses, this acts as an anesthetic so that the UnSub would have to also mentally manipulate them into a state of fear or pain. In much higher, potentially lethal doses, this could give the UnSub complete control over the individual and leaving them open for suggestion and verbal control of their movements." Rossi simplified, "The victim would be detached, observing themselves, being controlled, manipulated, but totally devoid of any awareness of the significance or context of the situation. Like a cow in a wooden maze, they'll walk the path right to their death with no clue until it's too late."

"Christ!" Morgan exclaimed under his breath, "Rossi, I swear, I had eyes on him until I left the office."

"Eyes, on? Reid?" Hotch said, not wanting to believe his ears. "Is he missing?"

Prentiss shot a glance at each man who looked expectantly at the next, each one hoping the other hand an answer for that very question.

Aaron Hotchner didn't wait for a second more of discussion before exiting the room, the rest of the team following close behind. He strode over to the desk that he'd last seen Reid sitting at as they left the room. The papers on the desk appeared to be lightly pawed through but gave no indication of the man's last thoughts before departing the station. Agent Hotchner had his phone out and dialing before a member of the team could interject a possible motive for his departure.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Penelope Garcia had been happy to have been left behind. The team being out of the office meant more time for side project like ripping into the latest database put before her by a lower level analyst. Garcia had taken the protégé under her wing with the purest of intentions but the young acolyte was quickly becoming more trouble than they were worth. Penelope felt like she was walking a thin line between mentor, and taking over the second position, pro bono. Then there were things with Kevin to consider…yes, she had plenty on her plate to keep her busy without the team in the office.

More profoundly, she was happy to remain at a great distance from that beautiful, little piece of geography that was the site of so many painful memories. Hotch had assured her that her expertise on the area would be all that more useful in her traditional capacity – she didn't have to travel, he understood. She couldn't help but wonder if maybe a little, okay, if not all of that understanding was directly related to Reid. There was one emotion that the Unit Chief didn't hide well and that was guilt. And Hotch had worn his guilt for Reid's attack around the office as if it hung around his neck, plain as day.

She had been privy to everything filed or sent across the Bureau wires since the attack, and knowing the details, Garcia could understand Aaron's affliction. She didn't care much for the way that the team could sanitize and desensitize a situation like Reid's attack, and she was sure that if given enough analytical rope, one of the members could easily hang themselves with it, as far as Reid was concerned. As far as Penelope was concerned, Reid was lucky to be alive.

Garcia had kept tabs on the young genius from a distance, monitoring their move across country with the kind of caring diligence that she devoted to her most cherished of tasks.

She knew that once Reid and Rossi hit the City it would be harder to track them. Between the light-rail municipal lines, the Rapid Transit system, and the infinitely walkable streets, that watching their car GPS would be next to pointless. In lieu of a better option, Penelope had taken to monitoring the activity of Reid's cellular phone. Okay, so she knew it was a little stalker-ish but, who wouldn't want to check up on the sweet boy genius after that?

Reid's phone was still on and bouncing off a tower somewhere in between the North Beach neighborhood and the heavily tourist-populated Wharfs.

Garcia's eyes darted between the minimized map displaying Dr. Reid's GPS and her protégé's work and then the phone rang, "If you're calling with a bridge to sell me, I'm not buying."

"Garcia," Hotch began, "I need you to pull up employment records, previous rental information, anything you can find that might link our previous suspect to Reid."

"Oh god, sir," Penelope gasped, as her fingertips began to rap furiously against the keys, "Reid's cell phone is still showing up as active. He's not with you?" She blurted out, not even realizing what she'd let slip.

"You have a trace on Reid's cell phone?" He sounded puzzled, and then followed quickly with, "What have you found, Garcia?"

"Our handsome felon is employed at the cooperative, worker-owned peep show, 'The Lusty Lady' also in North Beach." She couldn't repress a slight giggle when she followed up with, "I highly doubt that's the connection to how he knows Reid."

Hotch looked around the room at his teammates scurrying for leads and an excuse to get out of their superiors weighty sights, he then muttered, "Stranger things have been known to happen."

"City Lights!" Penelope exclaimed. "Hotch! Right across the street practically is this wildly famous bookstore. All of the poets who passed through those doors and spoke on that stage," Penelope cut her reminiscing short, "But I digress, if he and Reid met it was probably around there or had something to do with the bookstore. I'd start there. Maybe someone saw Reid with him." Garcia said, feeling triumphant at her contributions to the case.

"Rossi!" Hotch called in the man's direction, pulling him back from the departing coworkers. "Let's head back to where you guys were staying. Garcia seems to think we might find a lead at the bookstore nearby."

"City Lights," Rossi said in affirmation.

"Garcia," Hotch said, turning his focus back to his cellular phone. "Keep the trace on Reid's phone open. If anything changes, I want a call immediately. Send our location to the other team members and have them begin interviewing businesses, resturaunts, bars, or anywhere else, doesn't matter. See if you can get us any closer to the phone's location."

"Yes, sir," She said with a tone of crisp readiness in her voice, "Information going out to the rest of the team, now," Garcia hesitated, "Should I try sending something to Reid?"

* * *

**A/N: Ah, my dear, sweet, wonderful, day-making readers! Please don't hate me too much with this new cliffhanger. I'll be working on the update this weekend and would like to see it up mid-week. I know we all love instant gratification but I really enjoyed the length that I was going for with 'Bait' so please bear with me as I take a bit more time to make these chapters a bit more fleshier…for want of a better term. LOL. The begging is wonderful (and inspires so many evil thoughts) but I'd be remiss if I didn't let you know that I think you deserve the best quality and that may take some more time than has been typical of late. Oh and random side note: yes, I know in the episodes they call Tim Curry's character Billy Flynn but…come on, I can't have been the only musical fan that laughed every time they said his name….just waiting for him and JJ to do the Press Conference Rag. =P It's almost midnight here (see kept my promise, Saturday) and if I keep typing anymore this author's note will take a turn for the extremely silly. Until the next update…sweet dreams.**


	8. All Ties Are To Oblivion

**WARNING: No real warnings to speak of. Just our characters taking another step forward.**

* * *

Reid was desperate for sleep. His mind felt jittery and stale like the days of his early teens when he'd immersed himself in stacks of notebooks and scholarly tomes, forgetting to eat, forgetting to sleep, and refusing to let a book or pen fall from his hands before his mind had been satisfied. The answer would come to him and he would feel a short burst of elation followed by the sudden overwhelming realization of self. His stomach ached, his eyes hurt, his head was beginning to pound, and he could barely muster enough consciousness to ensure that his eyes stayed open. It wouldn't have been the first afternoon spent with each member of the Reid family curled up in their own nest of books and notes.

Spencer squirmed against the rough cloth that he lay on and for the first time he was able to contextualize his surroundings. He wasn't in the hotel room and he wasn't anywhere with Michael. He couldn't hear any sounds of car horns, sirens, or city traffic. Was he still in the City?

He was beginning to get anxious again. He wanted to move, his limbs itched to stretch and run just to burn off some of this extra energy that surged through his blood, despite his feelings of exhaustion. His happiness still overpowering his feelings of alarm at the fact that most of his clothes had gone missing. As Reid's lucidity began to return so did the heat radiating from his skin. He was certain that he was dehydrated by now though the nausea had also returned and he had no desire for food, even as his stomach growled and moaned beneath him.

Then his mind became fixated on something entirely different, he wanted to move his hands. He wanted to bring his hands in front of him, or better yet, something under his aching head. Each wrist had been fastened behind his back, and without any consideration for his training, he turned over onto his back to look around the room. The room was almost entirely dark and Reid could only make out the streaks in the decaying walls and other dark stains that sat like rich puddles, in the middle of the floor.

Reid tried his best to focus his shaking limbs and come to his feet, only to become violently seasick and come crashing back down on the dropcloths beneath him.

The room was quiet and Reid could hear water dripping off in the distance. He lay still, afraid to turn himself back over and turn his back on whatever lay behind the door that he could vaguely make out at the end of the rectangular room. His mind wouldn't let any more supposing or juxtapositions to come forward. Maybe it was his survival instincts that kept him from connecting his first, and only, visit to the Valencia St. Police Station to his current situation in this dark and damp room. That's to the constant overwhelming flood of serotonin to his brain, Reid had little concern for connecting those dots at the moment.

Reid wriggled twice on the rough cloth, groaning loudly in pain as the cloth felt like a grater against his skin, he'd opened a wound. He couldn't remember how he'd come to find himself in this room or why his body stung so sharply with each movement.

Spencer's mind turned to the team; they didn't even know he was gone and it would be ages before they realized he was missing. The placating nature of the drug had allowed the idea of his coworkers going on, untroubled by his absence, to hit him as a sort of relief. He didn't want to be found like this – it was possible that his captor would never return. It was possible that the team had caught him already and that was why he wasn't returning. It was possible that he would lay there, come off of the drug, and be able rise, and at least get himself into some kind of more decent attire.

Reid couldn't even entertain the idea of standing, turning over on the cloth had him feeling like the world was spinning again and it didn't make for the closed-eye visualizations to begin again.

_They had him. It was only a matter of time before they got the information from him and found Reid._

Spencer smiled to himself against the rough fabric. He could already imagine himself, surrounded by those beeping machines again. He closed his eyes and with little effort he was laying back in his hospital bed – the one he had occupied after Keller. _This time when he opened his eyes he looked on an empty room. Then the door opened and he heard the familiar tromp of boots on the linoleum floor, he thought it was Derek._

"_Spencer," Michael said walking over to the bed and leaning down to kiss his forehead, "What happened?"_

Spencer wanted to cry to him but the drugs still kept his eyes dry and bright with energy.

"_He attacked me," Spencer said, simply. "I didn't do anything."_

"_Spencer-no one is going to blame you." Michael sat down on Spencer's bed and took his hand in his. _Reid rubbed his hand gently on the rough fabric, trying to recall Michael's calloused fingertips and their tender contact with his skin.

"_No, Michael," Reid said, rolling his head on his pillow away from the older man, not bearing to face him for this confession, "I didn't do anything to stop him in the end. I should have done more."_

"_What could you have done," Michael leaned down to him and kissed a tear that Reid hadn't realized had escaped his eye. "What could you have done that would have guaranteed that he would have let you come home to me as safe as you are now?" He didn't wait for a response from Reid before shifting position and lying next to him on the small hospital bed. Instinctively, Reid raised his head and allowed Michael to slip an arm underneath his neck, as he moved closer to the older man._

_Spencer kissed Michael's neck and enjoyed the affectionate low rumble reverberating against his lips, "Make it go away," he kissed along Michael's jaw line, "make me forget."_

Spencer turned again to his back, looking forward to conjuring the next memory and projecting it onto the screen of darkness in front of him. He closed his eyes again and let out a low groan, expressing his pain at the renewed reminder of whatever it was that made his back ache so.

It felt like an eternity that Reid stared into the darkness of the room, trying to rally the poison in his blood to some useful comfort. Reid's head tossed back and forth on the rough, stiff cloths frustrated that the drugs were ebbing away and he was becoming more lucid and infinitely more frantic. He'd never been one for concerted physical fitness but right now, if this how Morgan felt ever morning when he complained about not being able to run before work, Reid could finally understand the frustration. If he had the balance he would have flown from the room just for the sheer sensation of expressing some of this overwhelming energy.

A door creaked open and Spencer bristled at a mechanical tone that was unlike anything he'd ever heard, "Pretty Boy's awake?" The voice was sinister even though the words were familiar.

He squinted as the form drew closer to him. "Why am I here?" Reid whispered, cringing as his own voice came out in that same mechanically hallow tinge and sounded terribly distorted to his ears, like an amplifier protesting its closeness to a microphone.

"You're going to drink this for me," The man clamped his fingers down on Reid's nose, forcing his mouth open. All Reid would have needed was the suggestion was to open his mouth – he was would have given anything for some water – but he swallowed the several mouthfuls of acrid liquid, the bitterness was overwhelming and Reid's eyes began to water as he felt his stomach beginning to rebel.

"No," The voice said as if predicting his next move, sustaining his grip on Spencer's nose and giving it a little tweak to emphasize his point "No getting sick, it will only be harder to swallow a second time around." The voice moved closer and he could smell a familiar scent and he instinctively took in a deep breath, temporarily forgetting his nausea. The voice chuckled deeply, "What?" He said and Reid would swear he saw those amber eyes flash red for a moment. Reid panicked when the other man opened his mouth and breathed a cloud of smoke into his face.

Reid coughed once and then took in a deep breath when the fog surrounded him. Reid groaned when he felt himself shrinking and falling away from the darkness around him. He felt as small as the head of a pin, the blackness around him was vast, and he immediately sought the mysterious mechanical voice in front of him. His goal of seeing Michael again was long forgotten. Then the blackness around him began to waver and suck at his skin, he heard the door open in front of him and he longed to reach out.

_Reid felt something solid in his arms and there was that sobering scent again, mingled with something else; mint and that subtle spice of cologne. Reid's arms felt full and he turned his head to nuzzle the familiar roughness, as feelings of joyful peace flooded him. "I love you," Reid sighed._

_Michael was holding him tightly like he was scared and Spencer felt the urge to comfort the older man. "Spencer, I just want you to come back to me safely. I wish you didn't have to hurt."_

"_I'm not in pain," Reid said truthfully as the older man pulled Reid over him. "I'm right here. I don't hurt anymore."_

When Allan entered the room again he found Reid mumbling to himself, arms twitching behind him, bound by those biting plastic bands, no doubt deep into an open-eye hallucination. Allan stood back, watching Spencer as he smiled and mumbled to himself – Reid was like an infant child cooing and singing itself to sleep in unintelligible speech. He was able to make out three words that had his hands twitching in anger, reaching for a nearby cord. He stood over Reid, contemplating his next move, but when Reid sighed contentedly, Allan felt his resolve strengthened and flipped Reid back onto his stomach.

"_I'm sorry, Spencer," Michael's grasp tightened and Reid screamed out in pain. _

_Reid wanted to cry but his eyes were tight, red, and dry – he couldn't have managed tears if his life had depended on it – and it just may._

_All Reid was really concerned about was how sad Michael seemed to be. "I can do this," He said to Michael, burying his head in the man's shoulder, "Just don't go away again." Reid screamed into the cloth of the older man's shirt that had taken on a metallic smell. _

"_I'm not going anywhere, Spencer," Reid could feel Michael's hand in his unkempt locks, trying to calm and comfort the younger man, "Tell me about one of your books- tell me about something you've read."_

_If Reid had been cognizant enough, he would have kept himself sane with the recitations and calculations of this drug that he'd been given. From the man that would type 'death' into a search engine just to catalogue the results in his mind, or who had retained all of the DMV statistics on Los Angeles freeways, this was a no-brainer. He would have easily been able to surmise the drug he'd been given from its effects. There was an obvious increase in energy, open-eye visuals, closed-eye visuals, an obliteration of ego, and a noticeable rise in his serotonin, dopamine, and temperature. In his right mind, he would have reasoned and calculated his way to a realization. As it were, he could barely hold onto a thought. His experience was relegated to his sensations – what appeared before his eyes were just a visualization of what he was feeling. When the pain at his back began anew, the sweet man beneath him fell away into a black abyss. Reid screamed in despair and pain as Hell yawned before him; dark, hopeless, and searing like a vat of boiling tar. _

When Allan had exhausted himself and Reid's throat failed to make even the slightest of motivating noises, he stopped. He pushed Reid onto his back forcefully with his foot. The sweet and nervous young man that he'd watched across the bar with Michael had become something entirely different. Reid's movements didn't imply hysterics as much they did some sort of contorted withdrawal. Spencer's face was red and slightly puffy in places. Allan resented it but he knew immediately, if he was going to keep his play partner for much longer he would need to give him something for the allergic reaction. He'd seen it happen before over extended large doses and was prepared with the necessary countermeasure. He hesitated for as long as possible before forcefully introducing two pills and several swallows of water down Reid's throat. The antihistamine would leave the young man useless for at least six or maybe even eight hours.

He picked up the quivering young man and then discarded him into a dark room and slammed the door closed. He stepped back from the outer door, spun the dial, and closed it. Allan had known a guy for cracking safes, too. The old, personal vaults in the basement of the abandoned bank were perfect for his needs. Allan didn't need to worry about being found out. Even if they did catch him, did detain him, they'd never get access to them unless he allowed it and they would all be long dead before Allan would let the combinations slip.

Allan turned his back on the hallway of personal deposit lockers and made ready to leave the bank. He had a shift at the bar in a few hours and he couldn't resist missing the chance to see Michael.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"_Spencer?" Michael whispered, clear the stray hair back from the younger man's face, "Don't fall asleep yet, okay?"_

"_I'm so tired," Reid whined, looking up at Michael hoping his reddened eyes and look of exhaustion would persuade him, "You don't have to go." _

_Reid was back in his hospital bedroom but it had slid together with his hotel suite in a warm, jelly-like haze of familiar confusion. Michael words made perfect sense to him even though they were not prompted or preceded by something that would illicit such a response. _

"_They don't care about visiting hours here," he clarified, when he felt a stab of pain shoot through his side. It was decided, pain like that must mean that this is a hospital, Reid thought._

"_It will still hurt while you're asleep." Michael said as if still trying to steer him away from slumber. _

"_I just won't be aware of it," Reid managed a weak laugh when he looked up and saw the look of curdled disapproval on the other man's face._

"_You really want me to stay?" Michael asked, looking at Spencer with disbelief and longing._

"_Can you leave when I do?" Reid wasn't sure what that meant exactly in this circumstance but he knew it ensured their togetherness even in their parting so it was the best agreement he could conjure. _

"_I'll be here until you leave and I will be there when you get back," Michael said, settling over the younger man who'd turned to his stomach to avoid any other shocks of unexpected pain. The pressure on his aching back was a welcome feeling, as was the warm breath of his companion on his neck. "I'm not leaving you, Spencer."_

Reid let out a sigh of relief when he felt the weight overtake his body and the instantaneous void of dreamless sleep beckoned him at last.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"They've decided you can go?" The female police officer, Deputy Barnes, announced to Michael upon opening the door.

Michael raised his head from the desk and looked at her in disbelief. "Have they gone to go find him?"

"Find who?" Barnes asked as she unfastened Michael's cuffs.

"Spencer," Michael said looking down and shaking his head, no holding out little hope for any kind of victory from this office. _These people weren't really doing a lot to defy the stereo-type of stupid, clueless pig. _

"They've left looking for their colleague who is missing," Barnes said, worried that she'd revealed too much but she hoped her candor would lead this man to opening up to her.

"Colleague? Is he a cop?" Michael asked looking down at his wrists, his voice thick with exhaustion and defeat.

"They're all FBI, in from Virginia or Washington or wherever they keep them," She said looking about the empty room self-consciously.

"He's just a kid. How could he be a Fed?" Michael asked.

Deputy Barnes laughed. "What do I look like the one in-charge of FBI recruiting? He's someone important to them if he isn't an agent." She said hoping her face hadn't turned red as she ran a few comprehensive glances over the detained man's appearance and build.

"I'm free to go?" Michael asked, becoming annoyed with the officer.

"Yeah," She said standing out of the way of the open door, "They'll have a few things for you to sign at the front desk but after that you are free to go."

Michael had never moved so quickly. He rushed out of the room and scribbled his name almost illegibly on paperwork that was put in front of him upon his exit. It was going to be hell trying to find a quick route to North Beach from the Mission District but he was certain that he'd make it fastest on foot.

Once he'd reached Market St. he was able to flag down a cab and had it drop him at the front door of City Lights Bookstore.

Michael ventured inside and headed first to their original meeting place. His heavy motorcycle boots made a loud tromping sound on the short, wooden stairs even as he tried to move quickly and quietly.

Part of Michael had hoped that he would round the corner in to the small poetry attic and find Spencer sitting in the corner reading a book of poetry and trying to assuage his melancholy with the sad words of the poets. Michael wanted desperately to see a hint of those perpetually wrinkled slacks or that unruly hair that never would stay perfectly behind the young man's ears. Michael looked about the room wanting nothing more than to conjure a safe and happy Spencer, sitting comfortably in the corner of the room.

Michael stood there trying to see him there, trying to see Spencer sitting there, but all that swam before his vision was that gray and hollow complexion from the photo that one of the other agents had thrust in front of his face. All Michael could see in the room now was that gaunt figure laying in the corner of the room with Spencer's sweet open expression looking back at him.

"Have you seen this man?" A voice floated up to Michael, a voice with a brusque and demanding tone. Michael didn't need to look down onto the store's main floor to confirm that it was _that _man – the one responsible for Spencer's original trauma - and the asshole that had the gall to try and challenge him in the first place.

In any other setting, if he'd been in county lock-up, he would have lurked in a corner. He would have waited for Agent Morgan to pass him, unaware. It would be then that Michael would make his move, bounding out from behind his place of concealment and running a sharpened mattress coil into the other man's gut. I'd gladly do all of his time a hundred times over if it meant avenging Spencer and teaching that asshole a lesson.

Spencer was the priority and obviously if he was their best lead and their second best solution was walking around showing his picture to the million-plus residents and tourists that overwhelmed the City on a daily basis, he knew he'd have to keep a cool head because he was Spencer's only real hope of being found.

He listened closely as he moved as quietly as possible out of the attic and to the basement level of the bookstore where he knew he could find the back exit to the small street behind the bookstore. When Michael ducked out onto the tiny alleyway, looked both ways, and immediately caught sight of Allan's vehicle. Michael headed in the direction of the bar. His thinking leaned toward the old adage of two heads being better than one, and he knew Allan had been on the inside as well and could possibly know others who could join the search – of course, only if he neglected that Spencer was a Fed.

_Michael had met Allan after his shift at the Lusty. He'd come into the bar with the idea of getting a drink and releasing a few choice descriptors about the Lusty's clientele and their unhygienic habits. Instead his simple plans had been foiled by the new and shaky barkeep. Allan had stared at Michael from across the other side of the bar before slowly approaching to take his order._

"_Do I know you?" Allan asked timidly, the first time they'd met._

"_Ain't you supposed to use that line from the other side of the bar?" Michael said, rolling his eyes._

"_It ain't a line," Allan put extra emphasis on the non-word as if to outline Michael's stupidity, "Whatever. What will you be having?"_

"_Blue Moon," Michael said, pushing a few dollars in Allan's direction._

_Allan walked to the row of taps, pulled the white and blue lever, and allowed the dark beer to come cascading into the glass that he held beneath. Once the glass had been filled, he reached under the counter and pulled out an orange. After slicing off either end of the orange orb of fruit, he cut a thick, juicy slice and dropped it into the glass._

_Allan slid the beer toward Michael, careful not to spill, and then spoke, "If you thought that question was me makin' a pass atcha, you'll love what brought it up – your eyes look really familiar."_

"_Woah!" Michael said, coughing on his second sip of the dark ale. "You locked up for a long time or somethin' or am I just that new to this city?"_

"_Yeah," Allan looked down suddenly fascinated by the dingy rag he was using to wipe up the remnants of liquor on the dark bar. "You remind me of someone I knew in there."_

"_I wouldn't open with a line like that in there though," Michael laughed, he'd seen plenty of hapless kids like Allan inside. Kids busted for possession, possession of whatever drug that was just a little too much. But just enough to get them a few extra charges, if they'd pissed off the wrong District Attorney, and then they'd find themselves locked up for larger time than some murderers that had held residence in the same jail. Michael used the opportunity to look Allan over very slowly, all in the name of identification, of course. "No, I don't know you. I wasn't locked up, up north or anything. They held me in one of those privately-owned hellholes in the Valley. Where were you?"_

_Allan wasn't anxious to clarify, "Up north," and indeed that was enough._

_From that point on Allan seemed to assume that there was some kind of fraternal camaraderie between them after serving their time and meeting in the same city. How could it not be fated by Allan's mind? Michael didn't really care but he was quick to stop the macabre reminiscing that Allan seemed to be fond of. "The bars are gone, man," He'd said to him once, "let it fuckin' go. I don't plan on going back or being anywhere near to that again and I certainly don't want to talk about it. As far as I can see, those years were stolen years. I didn't owe society shit for offing that banger and I certainly didn't owe them for killing that dumbfuck on the inside either, " Michael took a deep breath and shook his head so that the dire look on his face disappeared, "Let it go, man," He clapped Allan on the shoulder from across the bar, "We have all of the fog, salty fresh air, and beer we could want…what's the big problem now?"_

And as if true to his word, a few weeks after those hopeful words he'd brought Spencer into the bar. Now Michael was heading into the bar with the idea of seeking Allan's help in finding him again.

* * *

**A/N: Please accept my sincerest apologies for the longer than usual delay – not apologizing for the cliffhangers though. ;) Also my continued love and thanks to all of you who've commented or began following this story. It's a wonderful gift to know that you give of your time to read these words that I write. It's my hope that these coming chapters do not disappoint you. As always, I am open to your suggestion, speculations, comments and critiques. Thanks again and check back soon for another update. I've been told I have less than three weeks to finish this. ;)**


	9. A Fighter By His Trade

**WARNING: Shades of non-con, coercion, foul language, and drug use. Spoilers? Maybe for 'Profiler, Profiled', 'Our Darkest Hour', 'The Longest Night', and possibly the two parter with Frank. Also, the risks mentioned herein regarding DXM use are not terribly overstated. I've said it once, I'll say it again: Drugs are bad, don't do 'em. If that doesn't work then please listen to this: do not attempt any kind of psychedelic or hallucinogen without a trip-sitter or another knowledgeable, trustworthy person present. Don't believe me? YouTube is littered with videos of people who picked an asshole for a trip-sitter. If you need a mood pick-me-up this then I suggest looking some of them up. *steps off soap box***

* * *

Aaron sat behind his desk feeling impotent and incredibly angry at the dismal prospects for leads. Desperately he was hoping that Reid had made one of his frustratingly typical left turns and had gone home in protest or discomfort at the subject matter of their case. Hotch had not been able to hold the rest of the team members in their collective inclination to venture into the city and look for Reid. Prentiss, Rossi, and Morgan had headed back out to North Beach. Prentiss was intent on searching Reid's room one last time. Rossi was convinced that with his network in the neighborhood he'd be able to get, at least and inkling, for where Reid had been seen last. Morgan had lapsed into his nearly indivertible state of search- and-destroy and had headed to the bookstore that Rossi had mentioned when they'd spoken to Garcia earlier.

Hotch was itching to do something, anything that would mean he could spare Reid any more pain or trauma then he was already dealing with.

It was too tempting to walk down that path of self-loathing and guilt. And those two emotions had become a disturbingly well-understood state for the Unit Chief over the year. Thankfully, he was pulled from his thoughts when JJ approached and sat down at the desk across from him. "Hotch," She said in a mothering tone, "None of us could have seen this. This isn't your fault."

"Unlike Oswald?" Hotch inquired with a deep chill in his voice.

"It's a hazard of the job, Aaron." She said looking at him, taking on the same stone-faced demeanor that her superior was donning. "Are you going to start keeping Emily and I behind a desk from now on?" JJ said as if asking a coach if he was benching her for the season. When Hotch let out a frustrated sigh, she reached across the desk and put her hand over his, "Reid isn't the awkward little kid that used to follow Gideon around anymore. He's saved each and every last one of us at least once and he isn't a child. You didn't do anything wrong sending him into Oswald."

"Morgan or I should have gone in his place –" Hotch could barely get the sentence out before JJ interrupted.

"Why did you ever let me on the emergency broadcast system to talk to William Flynn or in to interview Jacob Dawes with you? Why send Emily to Cuba with Gideon when you knew nothing about her with the exception of her pedigree? Our backgrounds are all you have to go off of. You knew Emily had the desire to please and the linguistics skills, you knew I would react genuinely to Flynn, and you knew the same for Reid. Reid had the best pedigree – he's got a mind like no else on the team – and you knew he would react genuinely and would not pose a threat to his interview subject. Hotch, I know Reid was hurt but I am failing to see how it was your fault. Reid went back under his own volition; it wasn't under your orders," She paused and then looked at him seriously, "was it?"

Hotch stared down at his hands for a moment, looking at the young woman's well-manicured hand that covered his, he shook his head before answering, "No. I didn't know why he went back until I had gotten Morgan's report. Warden Glynn had called me and offered little explanation as to why Reid was there that day."

The air between the two grew still until JJ spoke again, after a few beats, "Empathy and understanding is just as crucial to our being able to do our jobs as Garcia's research skills or Morgan's combat abilities. Spence isn't just a brain, he's a profiler, and a man with a whole array of opinions and experiences some - even though it's hard to admit – that are foreign to us." JJ stopped before walking into the inevitable question and removed her hand from the top of Aaron's and sat back in the chair. "Why did he go back?"

"He said the chaplain had called him," Hotch said, looking around the office. "Christopher Keller was not handling the new of his impending death well. " Aaron couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone.

JJ looked at Aaron quizzically, "Why would he go back after the interview was completed?" She asked rhetorically but Aaron interjected anyhow.

"I should have let him go after the Savage case. He's always been the best resource from the office. I had to fight Strauss tooth and nail to keep her, and the rest of the oversight committee, from retroactively withdrawing the exemptions that allowed Reid into the field in the first place." Hotch looked over the paperwork in front of him and then back up to JJ, "Do you think he might be at Michael's Daly City apartment? That he headed back there when Reid found out that he wouldn't be leaving the city. Do you think maybe he's just waiting there or at the BART station headed back because Michael isn't there?"

JJ picked up where he'd left off, "And maybe his cell phone is back at his room on purpose, abandoned because he's thinking of walking out like Gideon did and just hasn't found the way to tell you? Doesn't want to face you, for whatever reason?" JJ tilted her head to the side at the conclusion of her sentence and extended her hand to meet his again. "I think it's worth the possibility, maybe?"

They both paused to consider the prospect. Hotch would miss him. He'd miss Reid's wit, knowledge, insight, and that sweet look of deference that faded more and more as he had gotten older but still reared its head when he uncertainly but willingly followed the older man's directions. It was a look so infrequent that when it did unexpectedly appear it almost stopped Aaron cold in his tracks. In that instant, Dr. Reid became that timid genius kid that Gideon had brought into the Bureau so many years ago. It was that timid kid that Hotch had received after Reid's stay in the hospital, and it was the timid kid that he imagined in the clutches of the man that they were hunting.

Before he could vocalize his darker concerns, his cell on the desk began to vibrate. "Hotchner," His voice came through with a biting, frustrated edge.

"Sir," Penelope's voice came loud and clear, "The lab has just gotten the results back from the trace evidence that was recovered on the last victim. And I know in this job when we say strange, it really is very strange but this, sir, is just beyond strange. It's more in the realm of insane and extremely rare."

"Garcia," Hotch intoned, trying to speed up the verbose analyst.

"Right! Asbestos!" She declared over the sound of her fingers furiously striking the keys. "I know anywhere else we'd think that would be as useful as say, uh well, nothing, but!" Garcia declared happily striking her final key, "Asbestos was used in both pre-1906 and 1989 earthquakes. The first quake in 1906 is legendary for having nearly leveled the City. What wasn't brought to its knees by the original quake was eventually taken down by the subsequent waves of aftershocks and the fire that spread throughout the City." Garcia paused for a moment, possibly in her own little moment of silence over the terrible moment in history, "Therefore, you can imagine that asbestos in habitable buildings was already on its way out. Of course, when its toxicity was discovered, San Francisco's government immediately began work on removing what was left of it in the city."

"This isn't making me feel any better, Garcia." Hotch said with that inscrutable look on his face. He'd set the phone down on the desk somewhere during Garcia's history lesson, and had turned it to its speaker function so that JJ could listen in as well. Now JJ was looking on the phone as if it was painting the saddest picture she had ever seen – a look of abject worry and maybe even, defeat?

"Notice though," Garcia was back to punishing the keys under her fingers and speaking at her usual rapid-fire pace, "I said habitable buildings. He's holding his victims in an industrial or commercial space, possibly a warehouse or other kind of storage facility. There are a few lots in the Tenderloin, South of Market, and Bayview neighborhood that would fit this description. However, the Bayview before it was known for its rampant crime and disproportionate poverty, was a main shipping and manufacturing hub for our own United States Navy. Vacant spaces in this neighborhood that still relate to the Navy activities are still guarded and patrolled by Naval Security. I've already checked their system and they've had no security breaches, requests for clearance, or civilian activity in the last five years. I've sent the addresses for several viable candidates in the South of Market district for the local PD to check. That neighborhood, like the Bayview, was also devoted strongly to production and industry but a great deal has of SoMa has lain fallow with the unpredictable economy. The buildings that are occupied in SoMa are a mix between social service centers, art galleries, high-end lofts, and leather bars – it's quite the diverse mix. "

JJ interjected when her phone announced the arrival of Garcia's recently sent data, "Thanks Garcia." JJ rose from her seat," Hotch, I'll go share this information with the lead detectives and they can begin checking and securing locations."

Hotch continued, "What about the last neighborhood you mentioned?"

"Ah yes, that juiciest cut of graft and vice, the Tenderloin, where the vices are as varied as what's offered on the street." Garcia chuckled at her own pun, "The area wasn't always as seedy as it has become. The City has more of a containment approach to crime than it does of actually attempting to eradicate it altogether. The Tenderloin is bounded by Geary and Market St. at Van Ness Avenue – that triangular slice of land also encompasses the city's public service and municipal building, or the Civic Center. There is a scant list of non-habitable buildings in that area but I am sending the list to your device, Hotch." Penelope took a deep breath and then let out a forlorn sigh, "If that psycho has our genius, he's likely in one of those locations."

"Garcia, you need to narrow this down. I want you to run through everything. I want background checks on every Naval Officer, security guard, and window washer that even goes near those buildings. If one of them has a criminal record, I want to know about it. If any of them even had a constant runny nose as a child, I want to know. Garcia, we can't continue to stay this far behind him."

"Sir," Garcia said already furiously writing code that would allow her to make the necessary modifications to her devices designed to scour any and every wavelength for usable data. "I am not sure how that will narrow the list for us."

"Find them, Garcia!" He commanded, before softening his tone, "We can't leave him out there this time. We just can't."

#-#-#-#-#-#

Allan felt a thrill of excitement run through him when the hinges on the dark wood doors of the bar creaked and through them emerged Michael, looking handsome as usual but a little more bedraggled then most days. Before Michael reached the bar, Allan had already poured a drink and had it resting in front of him, in front of the empty stool that Michael was approaching. "You look like you could use this," Allan said pushing the drink toward the other man.

Michael dropped into the stool, took a quick gulp of the beer, before moving it out of the way and resting his head in his hands. "Spencer's gone."

"Man, it isn't like you to be so caught up by something so quick. He never coming back?" Allan said dismissively, cleaning a non-existent drink stain on the bar, trying to keep busy as his hands itched to reveal what the world really looked without Michael's rose-colored glasses.

"No, he's fucking missing." Michael said still staring down at the bar, forehead resting in his hands.

"I thought you said he was leaving?" Allan abandoned the rag and moved closer to Michael.

"Yeah, he was," Michael paused, trying quickly to make up a reasonable excuse that didn't mean revealing that he'd been trying to worm his way into the pants of a FBI agent. "Shit, I don't know how they knew, how the cops knew. They showed up at my house today as I was working on the bike. They didn't tell me shit, just shoved me into a car and brought me into the city. You know the drill," Michael said, looking at Allan as he took another deep swallow of his beer.

"Yeah, I know how it is," Allan said with an understanding smile, "What do they think happened to him?"

Michael felt anxious and angry as he tried to answer that next question but just recalling that photo that they'd slid in front of him, the demeanor of Spencer's colleagues, and the absolute bullshit leads they had that were supposed to lead them to Spencer. Michael was a twitchy mess of frustration. "They think someone here or in the area is carving up young boys – college-type boys," Michael took two more long swallows of the ale, "I was their best lead, if you can fuckin' buy that one."

"You're shittin' me?" Allan said hoping that the color hadn't drained from his face as fast as he'd felt his stomach hit the floor with that last comment.

"No, they had crime scene photos and all kinds of shit to throw at me, even some creepy Fed who acted like he was, ya know, that he shared my… my interest or whatever. He was plenty creepy but still totally unbelievable – all the while shoving this nasty picture in my face." Michael shook his head in disgust and then took the last few swallows of his drink.

"What's this guy doing?" Allan said, sighing like it was some big burden to hear.

"I couldn't tell," Michael said honestly, shaking his head. "The kid in the picture looked sick, dried up, kind of. He had bruises and cuts everywhere," Michael's voice wavered as he fought the emotion that he had so seamlessly converted to rage in the presence of Morgan and Hotch.

"Damn," Allan said, sliding the refilled pint glass in the other man's direction. "And they don't have a clue who actually did it?"

"Not one that I could see," Michael looked at the second glass and thought better of drinking it. He had to keep a clear head. He had to find Spencer. If he didn't he was certain that Spencer's coworkers would be of little help to the young man. Just the thought of Agent Morgan, had Michael rushing right back to that always accessible feeling of pure anger.

"Will you help me?" Michael asked and then quickly wrinkled his nose and the unfamiliar bitter taste in his glass. "What," Michael said gesturing to the taps in the middle of the bar, "You just clean those? This stuff tastes battery acid. I think you must have left some bleach in there." Michael shook his head as if to get the taste out of his mouth.

"Didn't mean to offend you with the second drink - taps must be off or the keg in the back needs to be changed out. Wait, help you look for that kid?" Allan said looking at Michael with an air of surprise. "Where would you even start?"

Michael didn't want to consider that answer. Where would he start? Would he drag Allan to Golden Gate Park and scour the miles of brush and search under the shade of every Cypress tree? Or maybe he should head back to the Palace of Fine Art? Or look in every bar in the Marina, or Tenderloin, or South of Market? Maybe Spencer had found a better way to relieve his pain and was blissfully bound in one of the SoMa dungeons racking up all the scar tissue he would need to forget whatever had happen to him.

That wasn't Spencer though, that was not the man he'd met in the bookstore and it most certainly wasn't the man he'd held tightly to as he drifted into an eventually fitful sleep. There was a glimmer of hope that maybe Michael would go home and find Spencer at his house in Daly City, having used his FBI resources and general knowhow to track Michael down. There was a glimmer of hope that he could just forget this whole plan, go home, and find that sweet, tired face waiting for him.

Michael took another gulp of the tainted beer, momentarily forgetting its deficiency, grimaced and swallowed a shallow mouthful.

Allan's eyes narrowed, "Yeah, I'll help you look. The old man will be in soon. He's got a nephew or somethin' that he wants to learn the ropes. Fuckin' kid better not be here to replace me." Allan could feel his face clenching into a craggy expression of anger which he tried instantly to correct by forcing out a laugh and straining his face to a look of placid jocularity.

"The truck's out back. I'll meet you out there once the old man's ready to go back here."

Michael nodded and looked at the beer glass, still three-quarters full of that bitter tasting liquid. He considered taking another swing before venturing out behind the bar but thought better of it. He needed a clear head, he needed to be ready, if he was going to find Spencer before….No, he couldn't go there. Michael couldn't allow himself to consider the alternatives to this situation. He couldn't for one moment allow himself to dwell on what Spencer was experiencing at the moment.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"_I love you," Reid murmured, his head nuzzling the relative softness underneath his head. _

"_Ha!" A familiar voice said in that gruff tone that still had shades of an East Coast accent. Reid could feel the warm hand in his hair. "No one can resist me, not even you, Professor." The hand then playfully ruffled his locks and then continued to stroke his hair and cheek gently._

_Reid's bloodshot eyes sprang open. The _antihistamine, generic allergy medication, that Allan had given him did the trick and had decreased the swelling in his lips and around his eyes. Reid's rapidly quickening breath no longer came out in pained wheezes. That was the one drawback of using DXM, it was a natural histamine and in large doses over a prolonged time could cause heightened sensitivity to normal allergens. In this case, the overwhelming dust, mold, and decay of the bank had Spencer itching and wheezing after the second introduction of a third-plateau dose. Allan had carefully walked the line between sending Spencer into state of perpetually seized muscles, searing head pain, and eventual coma from the overwhelming swell of serotonin that the DXM caused to flood his brain in crashing waves of hallucinations and fever dreams. As it were, Spencer was once again deep into open-eye hallucinations. The DXM had given living breath to his fantasies and his nightmares and now they walked before him, feeling even more real than Spencer's own perception of his existence.

_When Spencer's eyes opened all of the way, there he was sitting next to Reid's prone form as if he'd never left this earth. His hair had never gone, it was that same closely cut brown. Those ice-blue hawkish eyes still glowed with sinister vitality. He was wearing that same variation Reid had seen each time he'd come to visit him, this time it was that navy blue tank top with the contrasting stitching and the gray, faded cargo pants. _

"_You're not really here," Reid mumbled, a strand of saliva falling from the side of his mouth as he turned to his side to stare at the older man who was now crouched in front of him, still running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. _

"_This doesn't feel real to you?" Keller asked, his hand coming the hair at the base of Reid's neck, Chris brought his face a breath from Reid's, "How about now, doctor?"_

"_You died," Reid felt his eyes moisten as the sweat on his brow ran down his face, supplementing the tears he wanted to shed, "You're dead, Chris."_

_Keller laughed again, that same throaty wise-guy chuckle. "That extra electricity must have done me some good because I've never felt so alive," He released Spencer's head and came to his feet, bouncing a few times on balls of his feet, like he was preparing to run a marathon. "I've never felt better, doctor."_

"_No," Reid head thrashed on the padding beneath him, he turned his eyes to the wall and hoped that when his sight rebounded to the opposite wall that Christopher Keller would be gone._

"_All that training," Spencer squirmed uncomfortably as Keller's weight settled over him, when Keller's hands settled on the surface next to Reid's face, he felt a chill of mortal terror run through him as Keller's tattoo, the Cubist rendering of Christ on the cross, came into view. The tattoo breathed in front of his eyes. He could see that contorted mess of lines and shapes, rise and waver in gasps of pain. The Savior's eyes were cast to the side, his head turned like Reid's, to the side, but when Keller allowed the bulk of his weight to rest on the smaller man, the head turned, eyes streaming tears of blood down Keller's arm. "Spencer," Keller whispered when he noticed that young man's attention had drifted away from him._

"_No, you're not here." Spencer said, looking into the weeping face._

_Then Spencer cried out as a familiar sharp pain, that felt like it would rip him in two, seared his bowel. He was back on Keller's ground now, lying prone on the prison-issue cot instead._

_Keller withdrew himself from Reid slowly and then stabbing brutally back inside the shivering young man. "You must have felt that?" Keller's tone was sweet now, reassuring even. _

"_Chris, you don't have to do this," Spencer whispered through the warm, salty droplets of sweat that fell onto his lips. _

_Keller pulled back from Reid, stilled his movements inside the younger man, and scooped Spencer up into his arms and pulled him against his naked, well-muscled chest._

_Spencer's mind was screaming at him, frightened at the ease of the situation. This sweat-slicked, frantic embrace was the closest thing he'd had to comfort since this whole ordeal began. Even with the weeping Savior looking on his anguish, Reid felt at his center, a core of serenity. His academic mind should have kicked in and if it had, it would have told him that he was now crossing into an upper-plateau of the drug. Very soon no matter how tightly he closed his eyes. or thrashed his head about, trying to erase the images that stood before him, they would not leave him. _

_Reid squirmed in Keller's tight grasp. It was a relief to have the final vestiges of his clothes removed. He would have given anything for cool water; to drink, to bathe in, to pour over his body that felt like it was burning from the inside out. Keller's toned arms wrapped tightly around Reid and pulled him even closer. Reid was sure that at any moment, Keller's chest would open and swallow him whole. Chris bucked his hips up, sending another stab of pain through Reid's innards. _

_When Keller spoke again his voice sounded strained and out of breath, "Was I right, Dr. Reid? Have you seen that hack in a suit that sent you to me?" Keller licked up the side of Reid's neck, releasing a lascivious low noise of approval with each bead of sweat he collected on his tongue. He brought his lips to Reid's ear, "He taken your file back to his lonely apartment yet?" He nipped at Spencer's ear and smiled when he heard what sounded like a quiet groan of enjoyment escape Reid's mouth. _

"_I hit on somethin' you like?" He asked, lifting his hips again to move within Reid, "He asked you to show them to him, what's left of me?"_

_Reid turned his head again hoping that Keller would disappear but he could still feel him inside of him – he could still feel the heat and the pain all over his body. "Chris," Reid whined, letting his head fall to Keller's shoulder in defeat._

"_Hmm?" He asked with a groan, "What do you want, Spencer?" Keller's hand came back to stroke the hair at the base of Reid's neck. "Ask me for something I can give you and I'll gladly do it. You didn't ask for much," Keller snickered, "and I did give you what you wanted, didn't I?"_

_Reid shook his head again. "No, Chris." Reid pulled back and looked into Keller's face. "I wanted you to stop, to let me go, just like I do now – you didn't give me that."_

_Keller stared at the younger man and went to kiss him but Reid's head tossed to the side again putting his lips out of reach and Keller's ice-blue eyes out of sight._

_Keller would allow him this little refusal, for now. "Were you a good boy?" He asked instead, stroking Reid's cheek," Did you do what he told you? If I died with any regrets it was not being a fly on the wall for that conversation. Did he want to touch you, when he saw them?" Keller's free hand had come to rest on Reid's waist and was guiding Reid's in a slow grind atop Keller's arousal._

_Reid gave into Keller's guidance of his body. Maybe it was revenge or a bit of easing the tightening cord of amorous tension curling up in his stomach but at Keller's last suggestion Reid opened his mouth and bit down hard on Christopher's shoulder. _

_Keller laughed heartily and pushed Reid backward, following him back onto the piles of fabric that lay on the floor. "Yes, baby," he cooed into Reid's ear now that he had the leverage over the younger man his pace increased, "Just like that – you remember," He sank his teeth into Reid's neck as a reminded as soon as the younger man had released his hold. "Did you let him touch you while you told him about how you finally gave in?" _

_Reid wanted to strike out at Keller. He wanted the older man to disappear but understanding that eventually this phantasm would leave him was impossible in his state. "No one enjoyed what you did to me but you," Reid whined as Keller bit down on his shoulder, renewing the bruise that just had erased itself from his body._

"_This that what he told you when you confessed to how you begged me to cum?" Keller went onto his elbows and used a free hand to tease the exposed skin of the younger man underneath him. Keller's fingers slid and traced over Reid's skin until he landed on a familiar spot that made Reid shudder underneath him, "You'll beg for me again, Dr. Reid." He ran his hand over Reid's weak arousal and smiled when Spencer tossed his head away from Keller and let out a small moan._

_Keller's lips spread into a Cheshire cat grin as he tightened his grip on the younger man. "Spen-cer," He said in a sing-song tone. Then Chris indulged in another low chuckle as he slowly drug his thumb over the head of Spencer's arousal and the young man arched up into his touch. Keller thrust into him harder, bringing his lips to Spencer's, capturing a hoarse scream in the kiss._

_Both men were panting when Keller finally relented and drew back from Reid, "Will I get out of here?" Reid asked in a small, sad voice._

_Keller looked down at him and then moved down to kiss the stray tear that had escaped Reid's reddened eyes. "I'll take you with me, baby."_

_And just like that Keller had slipped away from him as his head began to pound. Spencer turned onto his side, wishing he could draw his hands to his chest but he settled fo bringing his knees as close to his chest as he could. Reid curled into a ball, drifting in and out of consciousness, sobbing with each dawn of wakefulness._

#-#-#-#-#-#

Derek Morgan had walked almost the entire length of Columbus Ave. and between the tourists who stared at him blankly and the shop owners who couldn't seemed to be bothered, he was ready to lose his mind with worry. He'd ended up in Spencer's room, ready to toss the room just to relieve some of his fury. Morgan paced the empty space in the room, trying to imagine what would have drawn Reid away from the precinct and what it was that he was headed towards. He spun on his heel, ready to retread his path when something caught his eye.

On Reid's bedside table lay a watch, something with a thick black rubber band and a bold, metallic face. Morgan crossed the room and picked it up and turned it over in his hand. The band was worn and broken, it belonged on the wrist of a man with a labor-intensive job. The abandoned tie near the bed, the watch, and that smug look on Michael Peralta's face was all he needed. Morgan could feel his stomach burn with the implications of it all.

He'd like to think it was some kind of simpatico that had him so angry at the whole situation. Morgan would have liked to excuse his feelings as experiencing the emotions that he had refused. Derek Morgan was plenty happy with that role. He'd be angry, protective, and loyal because it was what Reid needed. Obviously, Keller's attack had only increased Reid's sense of insecurity and self-loathing. Morgan knew what it looked like to see someone sinking into themselves with little hope of ever emerging. He'd seen his own progression from happy, mischievous prankster to the serious, hulking teen-adult whose practical jokes now took on a tinge of sadistic delight.

Of course, his comparisons were purely motivated in Reid's case. It was easier to be angrier for Reid, angrier at a dead man, than to be angry at the very live bastard that now sat behind bar in some prison in the Midwest. As Morgan turned the watch over in his hands again, feeling the cracks in the flexible band, and imagining the man it belong on…in this room, in this bed, arms wrapped tightly around Reid. Of course, his anger had nothing to do with jealousy.

Derek Morgan could only stay in Reid's hotel room for so long before he started feeling as useless as he had out on the streets of North Beach. Derek headed down the fire escape instead of taking the sluggish elevator. He climbed down the rungs of the ladder, skipping ones when he could, to speed up his descent. The noise of the heavily visited district was overwhelming as shadow of evening began to envelope the city.

Morgan's head whipped around in the direction of the stained-glass bar and the alley that ran behind it, the alley that Morgan was about to drop down into.

There was a man standing at the back of a pick-up truck with a camper shell and there was another man getting in the passenger side of the vehicle. A figure he recognized, the buzzed hair, the bulky leather jacket, and that aggressive posture – Michael Peralta.

* * *

**A/N: Well, unless something else occurs to me (and it may) this is most likely winding down to a close. Again, I am not totally committed to how I will be proceeding so if you have any suggestions, speculations, or ideas for improvement I am totally up for hearing what's on your mind. Thanks to all of the commenters, followers, and anonymous visitors. You guys are too good to mean and a very special thanks to the reoccurring names on that list. The repeated gift of your time and thoughts is a wondrous gift indeed. :D**


	10. Sodom by the Sea

**WARNING: Spoilers/character use from the episodes; Revelations, Elephant's Memory, and Conflicted. No real content warnings other than it's still the same story with the same disturbing people. Also, Keller makes another appearance but not like the previous one so if that one squicked you, fear not. All in all this chapter is pretty mild if taken out of context ;). Also, beware the drunken editor. Lol**

**Oh yeah, I don't know if I have said this yet but it's worth putting out there: This is a work of fiction but it does include the name of some very real places and landmarks. As far as the author knows, nothing of this nature has ever happened in these locations or landmarks. It's a great city and a pretty darn safe city, as big cities go. Also all names are creations of the author's own (sick and twisted) mind that stem from regional and personal inspiration – not reality nor truth. Bottom line: It's a safe city and these folks don't exist in real life. Good? Good.**

* * *

"_I wish they wouldn't make me wait," Reid mumbled against the rough cloth that his face rested upon. He didn't have to see the presence that sat next to him to know that there was someone nearby._

"_Don't talk like that, Dr. Reid," Spencer was too tired to jerk away from the familiar voice, "Spencer," and then he felt it, that warm, rough hand on his exposed shoulder. "I told you I would take you with me."_

_Reid looked up and he could see those ice-blue eyes grow darker with sincerity. "He's going to kill me." Reid said with resignation._

"_Now come on, genius, why would you ever say something so stupid?" Keller said ruffling the younger man's hair, from his kneeling position Keller slid onto the floor next to Reid, laying on his side and facing the younger man._

"_It may be stupid," Reid said, feeling a wetness seep from his mouth but not carrying about the embarrassment of it, "but it doesn't mean it won't happen." Reid mumbled the last part incoherently to anyone other than the figment that lay in front of him._

"_Always using that big brain of your to talk yourself into trouble," Keller laughed and edged closer to Reid._

_Reid didn't flinch when he felt Keller regain contact with his naked and aching shoulder, "What is it like to die?" Reid whispered as Keller moved closer still to the frightened young man._

"_You can't let go now," Keller said moving his hand up to the side of Reid's neck and began massaging it firmly. "You have people to teach, professor." And with those words the dark bank vault disappeared from Reid's understanding and he felt himself laying on a cold slab with a dozen or more partially masked faces looking down at him. Even though the surgical masks obscured his understanding of those who hovered above him, it took him no time to find those blue eyes in the crowd of heads._

_Keller's hand was now raised so that Reid, and the others in the sea of faces could see what he held in his hand – a scalpel. Reid immediately dismissed his inclination to cry out. He didn't have the energy and he knew no one would hear him anyway. Keller was lecturing but Reid couldn't understand him. Keller sounded like a car radio when it gets bumped between radio stations; the garbled voices, the half-words intermingled with music and noise, the static, and that ear-splitting screech that would sometime cut through it all. Keller's frequency was being interrupted._

_Reid may not have understood the words but his fear increased. He didn't need to be able to hear to know that he should be terrified. _

_Before the scalpel could touch his skin, Reid was transported back to the front of a classroom – he was lecturing. Reid stood in front of what seemed like endless tiers of desk that ran up and back from where the doctor stood, all the way to infinity – desks, filled with students. His voice was just as contorted as Keller's had been but as he focused in on each face of the class their identities began to take shape._

_A thin, pale young man in a black turtleneck sweater and blazer, furiously taking notes and underlining a book as he went. Reid could almost feel those tightly-wound black curls underneath his fingers. A hand shot up in the crowd. An arm draped in a glaring orange material stood stock-still and straight up in the air, Keller spoke without being called on, "Who is he?" Keller's tone was jealous and predatory. _

_Reid evaded the question._

"_He's a bit young for you, Spen-cer and a little creepy for my taste," Keller made to rise from his seat but Reid stopped him._

"_He was someone I helped." Reid said trying to shift his focus to another student._

"_Oh, so he's dead now too?" Keller glared in Nathan's direction and Nathan couldn't be bothered. He sat there still taking notes and completely oblivious to Keller's snide remarks. Reid thought that maybe he could hear them but through self-preservation instincts honed in high school, he knew better than to engage a loud-mouth like Christopher Keller._

_Reid turned his focus onto another face. A blonde, shy, young man with shaggy hair and eyes that seemed vacant. "These all of your conquests, professor?"Keller laughed again, looking over at the slightly drugged-up blonde that now held Spencer's attention. _

"_He tried to help me," Reid said, looking in Keller's direction. He looked back over toward Tobias and noticed his desk chair had changed – it was no longer the swiveling blue chair that Keller was twisting from side to side in – it was a dark, old wooden chair. The chair that he'd never gotten a perfectly clear view of but that had become like part of his body during the time of his captivity._

_Reid looked up toward the back of the class and there sat a figure cloaked in black, looking very much like the Grim Reaper. He was thin, pale – except for his face which was red and angry with the blemishes so common for teens his age – and his hair looked like it had been neglected for a few days. Owen Savage. He looked just like he did that day in front of the police station as the sun beat down on them both but Owen was still clad head to toe in black. _

"_That's one ugly fuckin' chick!" Keller said bursting into uproarious laughter, effectively tearing Reid's attention from Owen. Reid turned his head to see a thin figure in a red dress pulling out a chair and sitting down at a place at one of the desks. "I'm sorry that I'm late, Dr. Reid." The voice wanted badly to be silky and feminine but it still had a bit of a masculine huskiness to it that poked holes in his otherwise perfect performance. _

_For a moment Reid considered what an interaction between Keller and Adam would look like. Who would come out victorious in the end? Surely, Keller's attitude and proclivities would be enough to trigger Amanda's most fearsome response. Reid could feel a confrontation as Amanda/Adam continued to stare in Keller's direction. Spencer did what came naturally, he turned to the over-sized projection screen behind him and hit a button on the remote that would bring up the next slide. _

_On a screen, so large that it consumed Spencer's perception and focus, he was drowning in the image; a pale, wan, and sickly slender man was laying portly obscured by sand and the pooling salt water. _

_Spencer began to cough and gasp for breath, his throat was feeling raw and swollen again. When the tide withdrew from the face that surrounded his senses Spencer began to gasp in earnest. _

"_Lookin' good even in death, Doctor." Keller's voice taunted him as he gasped helplessly._

#-#-#-#-#-#

"Get in," Allan said, gesturing to the man who stood beside his truck, looking mournful out down the alley.

"You think, maybe he just went back to my place – that maybe he found my place somehow and went to find me?" Even to his own ears, Michael had to admit he was bordering on pathetic. "You think that maybe his coworkers just jumped the gun on the report of him missing?"

"I know a guy," Allan said once Michael was in the truck and had shut the door, "he does the security for some of the buildings in the TL that are waiting to be turned into condos, ya know," Allan forced out a laugh, "when the neighborhood improves."

Michael too gave a rueful laugh. "He ain't much of a security guard then?"

"Not quite," Allan said as he made a sharp turn onto the street that would take them to the abandoned Hibernia Savings & Loan.

"What the hell are we doin' here, man?" Michael said, not even bothering to crack open his door, even though Allan was climbing out of the cab. He was feeling shaky, not nervous but incredibly excitable; the feeling reminded him of the beginnings of a cocaine high – a jittery euphoria that had him wiggling his right leg without even realizing his movements.

Allan rounded the truck and tapped on Michael's passenger side window. "Are we looking?"

"Yeah," Michael said, rising from the car, "we're looking."

Those last few words didn't set well with him and his gate felt choppier than usual. He tripped over something in the alleyway that they were traversing but when he looked down he was discouraged to find that he was only stumbling over his own feet. Michael felt a knot in the pit of his stomach forming and that same rush over nervous energy warming his being. Warm. It was a typical cold, windy evening in the City and he was beginning to feel overheated and he could feel a cool layer of moisture forming under his jacket. When Allan unlocked the gate and padlocked side door to the alley, Michael followed along behind Allan, stripping of his jacket and second layer, leaving only a t-shirt by the time he arrived at Allan's side in the dark building.

"Kind of stuffy in here," Allan said acknowledging Michael's sudden divestment of clothing. "Take this," he handed a battery-powered lantern to the other man. "the guy I got the key from says that sometimes transients hang out in here. If they haven't seen Spencer then maybe they might know someone who would have a better idea."

"This is really the best you got?" Michael said, feeling angry but uncertain when the first syllables came out with a metallic tinge to them.

"I don't think you can come up with a better idea." Allan said smiling eerily at Michael.

"Fuck this," Michael said, turning to leave right through the door he had come through. Whatever was in this building was making him feel feverish and sick. "I can think of plenty more reasonable options – a lot more realistic than this!" Michael turned and headed to the door.

The last thing he remembered was a sickening crack and then seeing the lantern he held go dark as it, and then he, hit the floor – extinguished.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Morgan had jumped down from the last fire escape balcony and down into the small alley that ran behind the bookstore and alongside the stained-glass bar. He ran the few blocks until the truck disappeared into the tunnel that connected downtown to North Beach and Chinatown. For a moment, Morgan entertained the idea of how convenient life would be if he did live in the movies – he could confiscate a Vespa and go speeding after Michael and his accomplice and have Reid back in his arm – correction, back at the station - in no time.

Though this wasn't the movies and there was no hapless kid with a Vespa nearby so he did what he could do, like any good man of mystery, he took out his phone and dialed his Girl Friday, "Baby Girl," he said before the voice on the other line could manage a snappy greeting, "You got mad skills and I need 'em somethin' bad."

"Oh baby!" Garcia exclaimed fingers already chattering away at drawing up new search parameters, "Tell me what to do with these hot hands - make my fingers move!" She giggled and awaited his response.

"I need all of the information you can get me on the men locked up and released along the time that Peralta was on the inside. Who did he know? Who did he hate? Who was in his cell with him? Garcia, I want the name of every man at his lunch table from the first day he was locked up to the day he was released!"

"Woah! Slow down, sweet cheeks," Garcia said, the clattering of her fingers almost overwhelming her naturally perky voice, "We need to narrow this down if you have any hope of finding this guy. Why do you think it was someone locked up with Peralta?" Garcia heard the hubbub on Morgan's side of the line and she interrupted her line of questioning to interject, "Morgan, where are you?"

"Next to a bar and that bookstore you mentioned earlier – I'm in North Beach. Why?" It took Morgan less than a half of a beat to pick up on Garcia's intent to lead him to the glaring detail.

"Pull up the W-4s and other employment information for a bar on Columbus and…"Morgan paused, looking for another street sign. "Vesuvio – that's the name of the bar."

"Lawrence Ferlinghetti used to hang out in one of those wooden booths and write," Garcia said off-handedly, not so much for conversation or witty retort but more for the sake of buying herself, and her ever evolving parameters, some time. "Let's see," Garcia said as three tax forms and two mug shots came up on screen, "There is the owner who did time back in the late 60's and into the 70's for possession of LSD and marijuana. He has a relative that is working there presently, not old enough to be our UnSub."

"Who is number three, my techie goddess?" Derek said, smiling at Garcia's (key) stroke of genius.

"Behind door number three we have Allan Ng," Garcia hit the keys furiously a few more times and then let out a shocked gasp, "Allan was convicted on drug charges in the middle of his college days. And how! This boy was trading in a little of everything but his serious line of income," Again Garcia smiled, amusing herself with the turn of phrase, "was cocaine. He was selling out of his dorm room and it looks like, between the school administration, the District Attorney, and his sorry-excuse for counsel, Allan didn't even have to pass through the barred door before he started getting it from all ends. Then he entered lock-up, and Morgan, this is where, like in the fires of Mordor, our UnSub was forged. I count seven documented trips to the hospital on the premises, and one event so serious that he had to be sent out to the neighboring hospital for – oh God – let's just leave it at internal injuries." Garcia brought her free hand up to her perfectly crimson lips in horror.

"Was he locked up with Peralta or was he the cause for one of those infirmary visits?" Morgan said, pacing the sidewalk of Columbus Avenue, filled with rabid frustration.

"No, baby." Garcia said with a sigh, "That's where we hit a dead end. Michael and Allan were never locked up together. They must have met on the outside." Garcia let the sentence hang, the dead air filled with a question she wasn't sure she wanted the answer to, but she wanted to ask anyhow, "You think he and Spencer's beau are involved? You think they both took Reid?"

"I know Peralta has a hand in this somehow," Morgan said, his voice growing low and angry.

"I think you're on the right track, my sweet." Garcia said as she hastily redrew some of her search parameters yet again. "Derek," She said apprehensively as the line grew quiet.

"Yeah, baby girl?" He said staring down the street that he'd last seen Allan's vehicle on.

"Derek, I ran a search of the inmates that had been released within the last five years and that now worked in the City or closely surrounding suburbs. The list, as you can imagine, was rather long still, so I narrowed it to men in Allan's particular block and well, it's an improvement but not a huge one – any suggestions?" Garcia let her fingers chatter the keys as she wracked her brain for another creative way to narrow the search.

Derek gave an ironic laugh, "Anyone dumb enough to give someone a security position? A phone bank operator at a call center for a security company? A locksmith? Window installation? Garcia, we're running out of time!" Derek said, walking back down the alley and out of the earshot of the many nosey tourists.

"Derek Morgan, I am ever humbled by your hot bod and agile mind," She couldn't suppress a slight giggle-snort over the hint insincerity in her voice, "We have one locksmith. A family-owned business that is also currently listed as the winner of the city's bid for processing all excess keys for property transactions and viewings. They presently employ a man a little older than Allan Ng who was released just a few months after Allan's release date-"

"Garcia, you just might be a life saver, let's hope. Where are there properties that would fit the findings on the last victim?"

"Oh my man of mystery, keep firing those good questions at me!" Garcia laid into the keyboard, striking the squares beneath her fingertips until a few dozen pop-up screens filled her view. She viewed and closed them in quick succession. "One site, and one site only, that has been standing for both quakes and is on the very outskirts of the Tenderloin."

Derek Morgan's phone pinged and he put Garcia on speaker as he went to open the file he had just sent, "My darling, feast your eyes on the abandoned Hibernia Savings & Loan."

"Garcia-" Derek began but was promptly interrupted by Garcia's rapid-fire acknowledgement.

"I'm sending the information to the rest of the team. I'll see who is closest to you Derek and then you can all be on the way to get our man, Reid that is."

"Thank you, baby girl, but I'm on my way there – I'm not waiting." Derek hung up the phone before Garcia could object and turned from Columbus onto Broadway, heading as quickly as he could down to Market St. and hopefully to Spencer.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Allan was glad for the practicality that using the old bank afforded. He'd gained substantial mass since his days in university but he was still smaller than some of the men he'd selected and that was where the bank came in. Behind the locked gate that separated the personal deposit lockers from the main vault was a single flatbed cart that allowed him to move his captives with relative ease. Allan had to be careful of head injuries, hefting them onto the cart wasn't a simple task but the pleasure that they would eventually afford him was well worth the temporary strain and care. When he had finished with them, when they failed to be entertaining, when they were so dehydrated, or so locked inside themselves by delusion, that they failed to audibly suffer- that was when he grew bored with them. Then he didn't have to be careful. He could drop them down on the cart, let their head slam into the metal slab or bump along the marble floor as he drove them out of the building.

Anything to get them out! He'd leave his masterpieces in places that would frighten, terrorize, and keep all those who sullied his City at home. He'd leave them each in his favorite locations. He was sick of having to battle the out-of-towners for the natural beauty that seemed abundant but all too limited in his City. They all came here for pleasure and why should he deny himself his own? Why shouldn't he engage in his own heedless hedonism on his terms? They all came here to be free, where was his freedom? They'd robbed him of his pleasure, of his abandon, in this Sodom by the sea but now the fruits were his to sink his teeth into and they all would starve. He loved watching those giddy boys, dressed in their finest out-on-the-town clothes reduced thin, begging, drooling heaps of pity.

He leaned up against the wall and took out his smartphone. He'd thought about dumping Michael into his own storage locker but the idea of him coming to, of seeing Spencer sprawled out like that, broken, withdrawn, and giving little doubt to just the amount of enjoyment Allan had already taken from Reid's hide.

The camera with night-vision capabilities had come to him from a discussion he had overheard one night at the bar. A girl talking to her male companion about setting a trap for her boyfriend in the form of a small camera that would broadcast straight to her laptop or smartphone. She wanted to catch him cheating with her roommate. She was certain that he'd been coming over in her absence but fucking someone else in the house, so she had brought this camera and some cheesy tourist-trap called, Spy Shop, at the wharves. She then pulled out her phone and began showing it off to the people in the bar, anyone that was interested to come look. She passed around what should have been a source of shame and pain – her boyfriend gleefully fucking her roommate – totally live and in that army-style night-vision green and black.

As soon as the Spy Shop had opened that next day, Allan was their first customer. He'd purchased one for each storage locker with the hope that one day he would fill all of them and watch each man, claw and beg for escape, all from the comfort of behind the bar. He could have gone on undisturbed for months, maybe even – years! But he had grown inpatient when Spencer had walked into the bar with Michael. Michael would have been the ultimate prize. He was everything his parents wanted where virility was concerned. They wanted that posture, that look that said that anything could be his if it was what he desired. The chance to see Michael sick and begging would be a beautiful revenge and the quickest way to those emotions were through the naked, shivering man that lay next to Michael on the soiled dropcloth.

Allan watched with a smile as Michael turned slowly, groggily toward the shuddering form of the man next to him.

Allan let a smile of delight spread across his face as Michael pulled back in shock and then slowly extended a hand toward the younger man, running the back of his hand along Spencer's sunken cheek.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"Oh sweet Christ," Michael said, feeling himself begin to hyperventilate. He brought the back of his hand to Spencer's cheek, to check for warmth, and when his hand felt a lukewarm cold, tears began to well up in his eyes, "Spencer, oh god, Spence answer me." Michael whispered edging close to the shaking young man.

Sluggishly, Reid's eyes opened and Michael was taken aback by the saucer-sized pupils and the redness, that in the dark, made his eyes look like one giant dark iris. "You're here?" Spencer mumbled.

Michael hushed him soothingly, "I'm really here, Spence. We're getting out of here. I swear, we will get out of here."

"He said he'd take me with him," Spencer grumbled before he let his eyes fall shut again. "I'm going to miss you."

"No, no," Michael said, shaking Spencer's shoulder lightly, "No, Spencer – oh god – Spencer, please don't close your eyes. Stay with me, Spence. Don't go with him." Michael didn't quite understand Reid's words but he feared that he wasn't too far from losing him completely. Reid's lips and tongue were so dry that it was an effort for him just to pry his mouth open to speak.

"I missed you. I am glad you came back," Spencer said drowsily and then let his body fall toward Michael.

Michael took him into his arms, just like he had back in the hotel room, allowing Spencer's head to rest on his outstretched arm as he kissed the damp hair on Reid's now clammy forehead. "I'm not leaving you, Spence," Michael tried another tactic trying to get the young man's attention. "They thought I was the one who took you. They know you're missing, Spence. Your coworkers, the FBI, they're looking for you."

Spencer moaned softly and burrowed his head into Michael's warm chest and mumbled something Michael couldn't quite make out. "They won't make it in time," He grumbled, "they never do - that's just the movies."

"Don't leave me, Spence." Michael said, pleading as he felt Reid's shudders coming fewer and farther between.

"I'm so tired, now you're here and I can go to sleep. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?" Reid canted his head up toward Michael and looked at him with those tortured irises, filled with that same pleading look that he'd taken on just a few nights ago. "It hurts," Spencer groaned, "I hurt so much."

"They'll come, Spence," Michael couldn't stop from pressing his lips to Reid's cool clammy forehead to punctuate each reassuring word. Michael doubted his words even as he spoke them. Just a day ago the team couldn't seem to find their ass with two hands and a flashlight let alone this psychopath that lurked under everyone's noses. As far as he knew they were probably still back at his Daly City residence tossing his bedroom a second time hoping to find something that would support their desire to slap Michael back into handcuffs and leg irons.

"Spencer," Michael whispered against Reid's forehead, "We're getting out of here and we're getting out of here alive."

"I've already given it to him," Spencer said with a dry sob which turned into a terrible cough causing Spencer to jerk forward in Michael's arms. Spencer cried out as his body jerked and seized with each contraction of his lungs, "I'm sorry I didn't know what to do," Spencer wheezed, "they won't believe me. This doesn't happen to someone twice. It's my fault. I'm sorry, Michael."

"Spencer, I know who you are," he said rubbing weakly at Reid's back with the hand extended underneath Reid's neck, "it wasn't your fault and this wasn't your fault." Michael nuzzled Reid's forehead with his nose, tilting Reid's face up to his, "He's not going to lay another finger on you, Spence. He won't harm a single hair on your head now that I am here," He began to reassure Spencer once again, "They know we're missing and they are looking for us now. Stay with me, Spencer. I love you." He kissed the younger man's forehead once again, "We're getting out of here. They're looking for us."

Each time Michael said those words he hoped and prayed that it was true. They had to find them both. Allan wouldn't live to dispose of them the way he had the other young men. Michael kept trying to remind himself of the few English classes that he'd attended while in lock-up. This had to be the arch, he thought, Allan's downfall was taking them both in. His fatal error had been taking an FBI agent and Michael would see him die for his error and he would delight in his death, in Allan's last breath would be a symphony of blissful delight.

Then Michael caught his own chill. _"Could you tell how he did it?"_ Allan had asked. He could see himself in one of the abandoned pools of the Sutro Baths, he and Reid bobbing in the shallow water, bruised and deathly gray.

Michael ran his hand down Reid's arm. "They're coming for us, Spencer. It won't be long now. Stay with me."

* * *

**A/N: We have one final, very long chapter pending…maybe two if I decide to split it up. Again, I am always open to suggestion for things that I could possibly squeeze in that you'd enjoy or just feel that it's creepily appropriate. Thank you for all of your amazing feedback, suggestions, and readership. I can't tell you enough how much it means that you've opened up just a few hours of your life to my ideas and imaginings. Happy Sunday.**


	11. The Way Back

**WARNING: If you read 'Bleeding Heart' and made it through without too much trauma then you should be fine. Everyone else, this chapter contains frank discussion and descriptions of blood, gore, violence, gun violence, non-consensual sexual contact, and consensual sexual contact. And if none of that bothers you but the fact that it's between two men does bother you – go get some Chik-fil-a and leave us alone. Oh and standard warnings regarding medical information and jargon apply, some of it is embellished for the author's purposes. No episode spoilers as far as I can tell. **

* * *

Allan held his phone tightly in his hand, his grip all but crushing its thin plastic casing, as he watched Michael hold Spencer, rocking him gently and undoubtedly trying his best to reassure himself, and Spencer, that they would make it out in one piece. The missing person report was a setback to be sure, but a minor one – a mere inconvenience - as far as Allan was concerned.

Spencer was beginning to come to. Allan could see the young man's mouth moving despite the dryness and exhaustion – he could see Spencer responding to Michael's attention. Allan spread his thumb and forefinger across the screen of his phone and his eyes narrowed in anger as the image of the two men drew closer. He could see Spencer was saying something but what he was saying wasn't clear. Spencer had jabbered like a toddler during most of their play sessions. The DXM had Spencer long-gone into a world of his own making. He had no idea the kind of things that danced around in Reid's mind but from the phrases that did come out coherently, Allan could assume this wasn't the first time Spencer had found himself in such a situation.

Allan was ready to strike something (or someone) when Michael dropped his lips down to Spencer's forehead for what seemed like the twentieth time. There was no point in sitting there stewing. He wasn't in the bar anymore, Allan reminded himself. He could do something about this and he would.

From the looks of Michael, Allan had persuaded him to drink just enough. If he could keep him off-balance then Allan would have no reason to fear the other man overcoming him. It was time to put an end to this once and for all!

Allan stalked toward the gate that separated the personal deposit lockers from the rest of the bank. Allan quietly let the barred door slide open and he proceeded carefully into the hallway of the deposit lockers. He kept the abundance of his focus on the camera feed on his phone. Michael was beginning to look panicked. He had jostled Spencer a few times and then attempted to come to his feet. After several failed attempts, Michael lay back down on the cloths and starred up at the ceiling.

Spencer's hand groped blindly for the other man and Michael's response was to turn to the younger man and resume his attempts to comfort him.

"They'll come for us," Michael whispered, trying not to lose control of his emotions as he caught a glimpse of Spencer's back and the extent of his wounds. The skin of Spencer's back had been bruised, cut, and marred in so many ways that it no longer displayed any visibly healed skin - just a patchwork of angry bruises and weeping abrasions. "I'll get us out of here," He said, as if it were an affirmation of an impending deed. "I will get us out of here."

"Oh really? How are you planning on accomplishing that?" Allan said, standing in the doorway of the storage locker. Reid whimpered as Allan shone the light onto their faces. Michael instantaneously raised a hand over Spencer's eyes and used his other hand to pull him close, glaring at Allan with eyes that sparked with protective rage, "First, I'll kill you and then we'll walk out." Michael said hoisting himself up into a sitting position so that he was leaning over Spencer's exposed body.

"By all means," Allan said, turning off his phone and stowing it in his pocket, "Give it your best shot. Please, let's not drag this out any longer. Come on?" He said as if urging a child into jumping off the rim of the pool into his arms, yet the encouragement in his tone made Michael's stomach turn over. "That's right," Allan said, in sickeningly sweet tone, "You've got to be able to stand first, right?"

Allan walked toward the two men confidently, undeterred by Michael's boasting, "Come on!" Allan said, pulling Michael to his feet, "What's the best you can do?"

Michael swung at him but the forward momentum sent off-balance again and left him lying away from Spencer now, laying on his side, in what might as well have been a marathon's distance from Spencer and the bloodied dropcloth. Allan turned sharply, and before Michael could recoil, he planted two sharp kicks to the man's chest and ribcage. Michael grabbed onto Allan's leg with the last blow and sunk his teeth into the other man's calf and not bothering to withdraw his teeth when he pulled back from Allan. Michael had no time to spit the blood and torn cloth from his mouth before Allan retaliated with a sharp kick to Michael's face.

Allan took full advantage of Michael's dazed state and grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him to the opposite wall. Now, Michael sat upright with a view of Spencer lying in shadows – too far to reach.

"You're an inspiration, you know that?" Allan said, cheating his body toward Michael but keeping his gaze firmly locked on Spencer. "It's almost overwhelming the amount of ideas, just seeing, you gives me."

Michael spat the blood from his mouth and cringed when he heard something solid hit the marble floor beneath him. _Oh well, it wasn't the first tooth and probably won't be the last before we're out of here. _

"Why the fuck are you doing this? He never did anything to you! You don't even fucking know him! Why are you doing this?" Michael yelled, looking at Allan with disgust. As soon as the words left his mouth he was filled with a sense of regret. Did Spencer know him? Was he the one responsible for putting Allan away for whatever it was that had Allan thinking he could identify with Michael's experience?

"I'm going to enjoy listening to more of your pleas as you watch me drain every last drop of life from him," Allan said, walking toward Spencer and leaning over him, "Did you fuck him before he left town?"

Michael tried to use his feet, bracing his back against the wall behind him, slowly lifting himself into a standing position with the plan of rushing toward Allan and beating the ever-loving shit out of him. "Get away from him!" He yelled as he struggled to gain his equilibrium and come to a standing position.

Allan pulled a flask from inside his jacket pocket and held it to Reid's lips. Reid whimpered and pulled his head away. Allan just laughed and slapped Reid's face back into the position he wanted it in, and then clamped his thumb and forefinger over Reid's nose.

"He's such a baby," Allan said looking in Michael's direction the entire time, taking a great delight in watching Michael gain ground and then slide, defeated, back onto the bank floor. Allan flicked open the lid on his flask and poured a few swallows of its content into Reid's mouth. "Swallow," He said sternly, looking still into Michael's face with a sick grin, taking delight in the double entendre. "He any good at that?" Allan raised a lascivious eyebrow.

"Go fuck yourself, Allan. I don't know what the hell happened to you in there but you deserved every fucking moment of it for this!" Michael shouted and forced himself to a standing position. Now, walking would present a whole different challenge.

"You're going to stand right there as I get the answer to my question. You wanna watch as I take what you were too big of a pussy to get? I know nothing happened between you two because let me tell you," Allan crouched down next to Spencer and turned him effortless to his stomach, "He didn't use your name when I was balls deep in him. Who is Chris, by the way?"

This was not the time for jealousy, Michael told himself. This was not the time to wonder what Spencer had neglected to tell him. He took in two deep breaths and tried to ignore his senses to all screamed at him that the room was spinning. He had to make it back over to Reid.

From all appearances, Spencer was long gone thanks to whatever Allan had just poured down his throat. When Allan pulled Spencer roughly to his side and ran his slender hand down Reid's marred back, Michael felt his will screwing up its courage with in him. _We'll walk out of here, Spence. Hang on. Oh god, please just hang on._

Michael felt his stomach back up on him, as he sunk to the floor under Allan's gaze and watched as the other man's hand stopped at Spencer's ass and cruelly inserted two fingers into him. Spencer groaned in pain but made no moves to pull away from Allan. "See," Allan said, eyes now locked with Michael's, "He's real easy."

"Yeah," Michael said letting out a sigh of what sounded like defeat, "Anybody'd be real fuckin' easy if you beat the shit out of them for several days and starved them. I'd probably even roll over for you after that, not that it wouldn't make me want to vomit as much as the others apparently have," Michael gestured to side of the pile of dropcloths.

Allan withdrew his fingers, added another, and sharply thrust them into Spencer. The storage locker was dark but Michael could see a slick sheen of blood on Allan's assaulting fingers. "Good thing I won't have to wait that long to find out," Allan said curling his fingers inside Reid, causing the young man to let out a hoarse scream.

"God damnit! Let him go!" Michael could still do nothing but demand and scream in Allan's direction. That is why when Allan pulled a blade from inside his jacket, he began to worry that maybe Spencer had been right - maybe people only got out of situations like these in the movies. Because, Michael thought, didn't the men before Spencer think the very same thing – that it couldn't be them to die? No one ever just rolled over and said 'yes, this seems like my time to die.' But maybe this was it.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Hotch had still been sitting at the Valencia St. precinct when the transmitted photograph of the Hibernia Savings & Loan came through to his cellular phone. Simultaneously, JJ looked down at her phone and then hastily back up at the Unit Chief. "Hotch," JJ began as she gathered up their paperwork and readied to head to a vehicle, "Where are Emily and Rossi?"

SSA Aaron Hotchner took out his phone and dialed Rossi's number.

"Hotch," Rossi said, upon answering his phone, "Garcia sure about this one?" He knew the question was somewhat redundant but the definiteness of it all left him with a feeling of foreboding.

"Yes," Hotch said, "According to her, Morgan is on his way ahead of you. Garcia was able to link an ex-con to a locksmith shop outside of San Francisco that had won the bid to process all of the keys and other security necessities for City-owned properties that were up for a short sale. The Hibernia Savings & Loan at Jones and Market St. is the only property that was standing for both the 1906 and 1989 quakes. The trace forensic evidence unequivocally ties our UnSub to this property. Our Unsub," Hotch continued, "is former ex-con Allan Ng. Garcia has informed me that his array of charges stem from a non-violent crime arrest during his tenure at a local university. He was, however, the victim of several violent assaults during the service of his sentence. These crimes, coupled with his recent reduction in hours and pay at work to a younger man (the owner's nephew), all compounded to make the man we meet today. Exercise extreme caution, I know it goes without saying but Allan Ng, our UnSub, will not hesitate to use lethal force."

Emily interjected, "Sir, did he take Reid because he was aware of his position? Does he know that Reid is with the BAU?"

"Speculatively, no. None of us are clear on just what or how much Reid revealed to Michael, and in turn Allan, but it is certain that if Allan is aware of Reid's status with the Bureau," Hotch paused and then let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding onto, "If he does become aware of Reid's status with the Bureau – it is safe to say that Reid's time is limited."

#-#-#-#-#-#

"_Relax," Keller whispered, kissing the back of Reid's neck, "Relax, Spencer. I don't want to hurt you and it will feel so good if you just let me in." Reid whimpered into the cloth, desperate to escape the burning pain. He could smell the mold and dampness of Death Row and he clutched the rough prison-issue blanket in clenched fists. _

"_Please," Reid begged, "Please, Chris – you're hurting me." He could feel the sweat-slicked torso of the stronger man bearing down on him. _

"_It's only going to hurt more, Spen-cer," Reid could feel the Keller's shallow breathes of arousal caressing the back of his neck. "You're so fuckin' hot, doctor – you know that? I wish I had gotten more time with you."_

"_He won't let you do this to me," Reid moaned as he felt a warm liquid running down the back of his thigh. "He'll stop you. He'll kill you for what you've done to me." _

"_You can't kill a dead man, pretty genius." Keller's strong hand wrapped around Spencer's neck and he began to choke._

#-#-#-#-#-#

Allan laughed as he felt Spencer's throat twitch beneath his hand, "Looks like you weren't the only one," Allan said turning to look at Michael, who was sitting against the wall, his face slowly turning green.

"Who's Chris?" Allan asked, a sick grin of delight on his face. Allan ground his hips against Reid's body as the helpless young man struggled desperately for oxygen. Allan released a loud groan of ecstasy.

Michael tried once again to launch himself into a standing position but when Spencer ceased to twitch and struggle under Allan's iron grasp, Michael could feel the contents of his stomach backing up on him. "Let him go, you fuck. Why are you doing this?" Michael screamed as he lost his balance once again and fell onto his side, he could feel his body begin to jerk and wretch as he laid there powerless to intervene. He hadn't felt this powerless in decades and it was not a welcome remembrance.

#-#-#-#-#-#

_Keller sat next to the barely moving Reid. "You ready to get out of here, beautiful?"_

"_You'll really take me with you?" Reid asked, looking up at Keller with tears in his eyes. "You won't let them hurt me anymore?"_

"_You're mine now, Spence." Keller caressed the younger man's cheek and wiped the tears coursing down Spencer's cheeks away. "I didn't want you to see anything like this – do anything like this – I thought what I'd done would have kept you safe." Reid had no time to doubt the realness of the man caressing his cheek because in true Keller form he began to get angry. "It was that sadist sonofabitch boss of yours, wasn't it? He fuckin' sent you in here again. What he using you like a hot young worm on a hook, again?"_

_Keller's anger, Reid assumed, was more ire over him not being obeyed rather than seeing Reid in pain once again – because wasn't Keller the original source of his pain? _

"_You won't hurt me again, will you?" Spencer asked, the tears in his eyes blossoming anew at the memory of their last real encounter._

"_You've got no reason to believe me but you've felt the last pain you'll ever know." Keller kissing him softly, running his fingers through the younger man's hair. Reid groaned into the kiss and obediently parted his lips, relishing the feeling of Keller forcing breath into his lungs. "I can't lie in our condition, Spence."_

_Reid nipped at the older man's bottom lip, whispering his next words, afraid of the answer, "What was it like? Why wouldn't you let me be there like this, for you?"_

"_I'd rather would've had to have broken your nose a hundred times over than have you see me like that," Keller said, scooping up Reid into his arms. "I imagine that it gave them some sort of satisfaction – it was the closest they'd get to see me burning in Hell. But you, you didn't need that. You didn't need to see me crying, smell my flesh burning, watch the blood stream down my face, or see me piss myself when my body finally gave out. You're just as smart as you are beautiful and you'd have known all the little details and special words for each step of my death. Why should you live with that?"_

"_Why should you die alone?" Reid asked, clawing at Keller's shoulders when he felt the older man becoming fuzzy and unfocused under his fingertips. Keller was leaving him._

_Keller flexed his bicep and turned the image of the cubist Christ toward Reid once again, "You got a point, but they weren't frying 'em in groups that day so I'd say no one deserved to live with that memory. I guess the two crooks strung up next to him," He rolled his shoulder again, "well, I guess they just got lucky. I wish I'd had someone to die next to me," Keller laughed at the absurdity of that sentiment, "but I am sure that's what those college boys thought as I did my due diligence with them too. I bet they wished it was me dying along with them. In a way, I'd hoped that killing them was killing me a little too." Chris bared his teeth in a predatory grin, "I'm like a fuckin' vampire, doctor. The State just had to turn up the juice and put that final nail in my coffin."_

"_Chris," Spencer whimpered frantically. The older man's image was becoming faint and Reid's vision was beginning to lighten, "I don't know if I want to go back," Reid whined, then without warning, his eyes burst open and Reid let out a hoarse, startled scream in conjunction with regaining his vision._

#-#-#-#-#-#

Allan was hovering over him. He struck Reid and when Reid continued to scream in shock and pain, Allan hit him across the face again.

Reid was too weak to struggle away from Allan but when Allan leaned down toward him again, Reid bit down on the closest piece of flesh to him - Allan's cheek.

Michael lay there observing the horrific scene. Michael watched as Reid caught Allan's face and that was all it took for Michael to give into the urge to vomit. Michael wished himself deaf when he heard the crunching sounds of Allan's enraged retaliation for Reid's desperate attempt to fight back. Allan had gone flaccid from Spencer's attack and that seemed to enrage him most of all.

When Michael caught sight of Allan's blood on Spencer's lips and the already darkening bruises on Spencer's body, Michael let go of the content of his stomach, pulling back when it hesitated and began to travel back toward him on the slanted surface. The revulsion that he would have felt under normal circumstances was dismissed by the minimal amount of DXM in his system. Still, despite his lack of revulsion, Michael still scooted back and into a sitting position. Without thinking, Michael had risen to his feet and quickly backed toward the wall lest Allan catch wind in his change in equilibrium.

Yet Michael had nothing to worry about since Allan was far too engrossed in the many painful ways he could punish Spencer for his rebellion.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Morgan had paced out in front of the Hibernia Savings & Loan for several passes before he made the unilateral decision to forge ahead alone. Each moment he spent outside, stalking Market and Jones St. like one of the many tweaked-out street dwellers who watched him suspicious, each moment he spent on the street could be a moment that Spencer was without oxygen, without safety, with his protection.

Derek could hear sirens in the distance and prayed that Allan was oblivious behind those thick walls. Those walls had withstood two major disasters on top of the daily wear, tear, and trauma that the City could dish out. Derek ran to the back of the bank, jumping over a few cloth-and-cardboard mounds that concealed sleeping men and women on the cold, dirty sidewalk.

It only took Derek one cursory glance at the security fence around the perimeter of the building to observe the miniscule crack. The lock had been undone and gate scooted back into place but not secured. Morgan slipped through the small space with little pause and into the door that had been left wide open. Instinct had Derek reaching for the small flashlight on his belt but he immediately thought better of it. He had no time to stalk through the darkness calling out clear and secure portions of the space. When a familiar cry of distress hit his ears, Derek found himself running toward the sound, hand on his service weapon as he charged ahead up the short flight of stairs and toward the main vault of the bank.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Allan stepped away from Spencer only to retrieve a thick rubber-like cord that lay to the side of the dropclothes. The blood from Allan's face had moistened Spencer's mouth and throat, enough so that when Allan lashed at him indiscriminately with cord that had lain nearby Allan slashed through the air with the heavy cord, striking Reid wherever he could land a blow. Allan was beginning to sweat and as he watched the thick red lines coat Spencer's skin, Allan's arousal began to stiffen with the promise of that final, delicious act.

"I can't wait to feel you die," Allan kicked at Reid to emphasize his point, then looked over at Michael, "I can't wait to fuck him and feel him grow cold!' Allan cried out with a maniacal laugh.

Allan's arm was still raised about his head, ready to bring down another punishing blow on Spencer's aching skin when unexpectedly; Allan was thrown to the ground.

All Michael had needed was to empty the contents of his stomach, and just as quickly as his body was poised to launch into another plateau of the demon DXM, it had stopped. His head felt stale, cottony, but no worse for wear – discounting the aching goose-egg on the back of his skull. The crack and thud of the cord striking Spencer's body and Allan's sounds of delight that trailed after each painful noise were enough fuel to set his rage to the point of boiling over. The whole situation had given Michael more strength than he'd ever thought possible. He rose to his feet and launched himself toward the sick bastard that hovered over Reid.

Michael had gotten in two successive blows before Allan could even realize what had occurred. Allan lay flat on his back beneath Michael, looking up at a wild frenzy of hands that struck at his face, his neck, and his head. "It's over," Michael yelled, slamming Allan's head into the stained marble floor. "You fucking die, right now!" He struck Allan's head against the floor one more time but felt his stomach burn with rage when Allan smiled up at him through the tears coursing down his face.

"I'll see him in hell," Allan choked out when Michael let up for only a moment, "I'll fuck him, I'll beat him until he can't struggle, I'll strip his skin from his body and swallow it whole. He'll be there with me." Allan said, goading Michael on – in part thankful for the pain and the end that was nearing his sight.

When Spencer groaned in pain both men turned their focus to him. "He isn't going anywhere," Michael said, "You die today, not him."

Michael struck Allan once, only once before a blinding beam of light landed on the two men.

"Peralta!" Morgan yelled, "Step back, hands in the air," Michael was not about to retreat from the opportunity to kill Allan with his bare hands.

"Now!" Morgan emphasized with the sound of him cocking his weapon back, ready to kill both Michael and Allan.

Michael reluctantly came to his feet. "Help Spencer," He barked as Morgan rushed him, wasting no time in cuffing Michael's hands behind his back.

Morgan looked down at Allan and then when he assumed that he would not pose a threat, Morgan ran to where Reid was laying and took the younger man's hand in his and used the other to dial emergency dispatch. It was times like this that he understood why the Academy beat the reporting requirements into their heads. Derek had always been able to think on his feet but seeing Reid laying there, like this, was overwhelming. The emergency personnel and the rest of the team were on their way. He said the same to Reid, whispering encouragements, admirations, and anything else he could think of to the barely conscious Dr. Reid.

Morgan's ears where burning with desire, the desire to hear sirens, footfalls on the marble floor, the calls of his team headed in his direction – instead his hearing detected another kind of movement – a struggle.

Allan had rolled toward the handcuffed Michael and was taking full advantage of the other man's incapacitation and was using the same cord he had used on Reid to wrap around Michael's neck and put an end to the man who had tried unsuccessfully to squelch his life.

"Freeze," Morgan bellowed, rising to his feet, "it's over he isn't going to," then it dawned on him, "Put your hands up!"

Michael choked as Allan increased his pressure on the cord. Two loud shots echoed in the marble-lined room. Allan slumped to the side and then fell to the floor, his weight lying on his collapsed torso yet still partially on Michael's abdomen.

Michael coughed a few more times and then rasped out, "Fucking uncuff me already!"

Both men were shocked by several unexpected blast of sound and the shouts of 'clear!' bouncing off the marble floor and travelling still in their direction. Derek pulled Michael into a recovery position but still did not bother to remove his handcuffs. He went back to Reid immediately and breathed a long held sigh of relief when Spencer stirred and began to sob softly upon his realization of wakefulness.

#-#-#-#-#-#

"_You know what's funny about being dead, doc?" Keller said, smiling at the peaceful young man next to him – he didn't wait for an answer, "I can tell you I'm sorry and for the first time I can actually be sure that I mean it. I lied and I'm sorry."_

"_What?" Reid said, not really caring to hear the sadness in Keller's voice but enjoying the warmth next to him, "What did you lie about, Chris?"_

"_I think you'll be safe now though," Keller said kiss Reid's forehead and brushing the hair back from his eyes and face. _

"_A lack of a corporeal existence sure hasn't made you any less evasive," Spencer opened his eyes and smiled up at Keller who brought an arm to rest underneath Reid's head and pulled the young man as close as possible, leaning over him, kissing and caressing each part of the younger man that was within reach. _

_Spencer abandoned his line of questioning long enough to enjoy a breath-stealing kiss and the joy of being momentarily and happily surrendered. These kisses were different from the mad, forced lip-locks they had in Oz. Chris was warm, gentle, and inviting – coaxing Reid into participation. This wasn't about submission or a battle of wills – Keller was saying goodbye._

"_What don't you want to tell me?" Spencer asked in between pressing kisses to Keller's lips. "What is there to be sorry for?"_

"_I'm sorry," Keller said with another kiss, "that I would have never been capable of this in the flesh. I'm sorry that I've let my dick keep me from people that could have changed me, men like you that scared me so much because you only felt like you needed to prove yourself in front of a chalkboard." Keller pulled away from Spencer but clutched Reid's outstretched hand as he pulled away, "I am sorry that it was my pain that drove you to him. I am sorry that it won't be me there when you open your eyes."_

_Keller's tight grip began to sizzle and fade as Reid struggled to hold on tighter. "Chris," Reid whined, watching frightened as those blue eyes began to blur and Keller's skin began to look more like a fluid than a solid. "I won't waste it, I promise. Don't go, Chris."_

"_Over mountains in the moon," Keller said, smiling like a Cheshire cat as his body began to shudder like static and Keller's smile was last to fade from view, "All who wander are not lost, doctor. Wander on home now."_

#-#-#-#-#-#

For the first time in a long time, Reid felt himself fall into an exhausted dreamless sleep. He was happy to be lying on a cloud of softness and swallowed up by the restful darkness. If anyone came into his room, Spencer wouldn't have known and he didn't care to know. Finally, his body felt like his own again, and even the pain wasn't enough to distract him from the hunger he had for sleep. Even in the face of sheer exhaustion the DXM had kept him awake, his mind running at top speed, but now none of that could haunt him.

Spencer let himself soak in sleep like a thirsty, exhausted sponge. Reid wallowed in the rest, relishing the dreamless sleep and the escape from the pain and all that had haunted him. Keller, Oz, and Allan were all like some bad dream that he'd had weeks before. They each held no more significance to Reid than one of the poorly written novels he'd scanned years back. Keller, Oz, and Allan weren't memories – they were confined to a vague reminder of a memory he'd once had but found it riddled with holes like Swiss cheese.

When Spencer finally did come to complete wakefulness it was in the dead of night. Outside of his cool, dark space seemed to exist chaos. Outside of his cool dark room came beeps of various machines, the rhythmic hum of beds deflating and then re-inflating to avoid pressure sores on patients unseen, the footfalls on linoleum flooring, and the roll of wheels past his door. Reid was sore but oddly refreshed from his long sleep.

It took equal parts confidence and strength for Reid to lift himself up in bed and swing his feet over the side. Immediately, he regretted that move and reached for the bedside commode, feeling as if he'd become ill at any moment but it abated as suddenly as it had arrived. Reid sat up, his feet dangling off the side of the bed, one hand gripping the side bed-rail and the other holding onto the arm of the bedside commode.

Quietly, Reid's hospital room door opened. "Dr. Reid," The kind male voice entered the room before Reid could make out a figure. "How are you feeling?"

Reid turned his head toward the door and saw a kind-faced, blonde male nurse headed in his direction, "The man who was brought in with you is already up and walking around. He in the FBI too?"

Reid shook his head and regretted it when he felt another wave of pain and nausea. Was it Morgan? Reid wondered, as he fought the cotton-type feeling that crowded up his head. "What does he look like?"

"Hot," The young man said without hesitation and then quickly cast his eyes down to Reid's chart, cleared his throat, and then looked back up to Reid with embarrassment flushing his face, "About six-something, almost a buzzed-type haircut, and the nicest voice I've ever heard on someone who sustained that kind of injury to their throat."

"Michael," Reid said, in an exhaled whisper, "Is he still here?"

"Yeah," The nurse said, "he's been asking about you since he's been able to speak. The agents that accompanied both of you in didn't say anything about how you knew each other but I am assuming since there's no one standing guard outside his door – well, then he must be one of you, right?"

Reid couldn't think of a satisfactory answer so he made one up, "No, just a Good Samaritan in the wrong place at the wrong time," Reid paused as he remembered more from his days before the DXM and before the bank – the smell of Cypress trees, fog, and the wet sand – and suddenly Reid felt guilty, "he was hurt because of me – because we knew each other without work – then it got in the way." Reid looked down, watching as the nurse busied himself taking Reid's vitals.

After the nurse recorded the necessary digits he looked at Reid, "Don't blame yourself. He's fine," the nurse laughed, "he's better than fine and best of all is he's been asking for you." The nurse smiled encouragingly at Reid. Reid wasn't sure how to ask, or what to ask, and like the human-Google-search that he was, he wasn't sure what the nurse couldn't reasonably disregard Reid's request under California's Health Information Privacy Protection Act.

"You haven't left the room yet," the nurse said with a knowing grin, "would you like me to wheel you around the floor for some fresh air?" He didn't wait for a response before guiding a wheelchair to the side of Reid's bed.

Reid nodded and happily accepted the nurse's gentle assistance into the chair. Reid remained silent as he was wheeled out of the room and down the linoleum floor, fighting the urge to look into each room that they passed. Then something occurred to him and he wasn't sure how to ask it so he held onto the idea, let it shake itself free from the cottony confines of his brain, "What do you know about what happened to me?"

The nurse sighed and weighed his words carefully, "I know that you were drugged for a long period of time. I know we've been watching you because at one point you began to go into anaphylactic shock but whoever was watching over you had enough skill to avert the potentially fatal allergic reaction. I know that with the drug you were given memory loss, as well as flashbacks, are common." They continued to wheel past the nursing station and down to a different hallway with rooms on alternating sides of the hallway for as far as the eye could see. They walked for awhile until they arrived in front of an open door, "I know that you have someone here who desperately wants to see you well again," the nurse smiled and squatted down next to the side of Reid's wheelchair, "but you asked for what was in your chart and that isn't but it is true."

Reid felt his palms begin to sweat and his heart beat in a nervous rhythm. "Are you OK?" The nurse asked, still crouched next to Reid's chair.

Reid nodded and swallowed.

The nurse stood and guided Reid's chair through the door of the other room, "Mr. Peralta," the nurse called quietly into the room, "here to take your vital signs."

A tired groan and then a low chuckle, "Hey Dan?" The raspy low voice queried, "You taking me to shower already?"

"No, comic." The nurse, Dan, said with a dismissive laugh. "Anything else I can get you?"

Without a beat of hesitation, "Is Spencer Reid still here?"

Then as if two clouds had crashed against each other in Reid's chest, sparking a thunderstorm of emotion. Reid let out a choked, wet sound of affirmation. "Yeah, Mike. I'm here."

Michael sat upright in bed without hesitation or any indication that he felt pain, except for the hissing intake of breath through his teeth as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way to his feet and toward Dan and Reid.

"You okay there, Dr. Reid?" Dan asked, touching a hand lightly to Reid's shoulder. Reid nodded his head emphatically, trying in part to shake the tears that were already cascading down his cheeks. "Thank you," Reid managed to get out.

Dan smiled, "I'll listen for your call to the nurses' station when you're ready to go back to your room." Dan backed out of the room, watching happily as Michael approached Reid with the same look of overwhelming emotion.

Spencer had never felt some completely out of place in his own body. He wanted to will himself to his feet, to go to Michael. But then there was that cottony blankness in his mind that left him wondering what had happened that had landed them both here. Michael walked toward him unsteadily but stopped in front of Spencer and sunk to his knees, resting his head on Spencer's lap. Spencer's hands went instantly to Michael's head and back, rubbing gently over the bandage at the back of Michael skull and down his exposed back due to the flimsy hospital-issue gown. As Spencer's fingers ran comfortingly over Michael's head, neck, and shoulder, Reid felt the older man shudder under his touch and begin to cry. He knelt in front of Reid for many moments until Reid's phobic mind took over and he said, "You know in hospitals, anything that falls below a standing person's waist is considered germ-laden?"

Michael chuckled and rose clumsily to his feet. He sat back on the bed and took advantage of the fact that the brakes on Reid's chair were not locked and pulled Reid toward him. "Are you-" Michael hesitated, he did not have the luxury of cloudy white spaces of missing memory. He could still see it all plain as day. Spencer looked fleshier now than he had in the bank. The color hadn't returned to his face but the dark circles that had been there since their first meeting were now beginning to fade. "What do you remember, Spencer?"

Reid smiled softly Michael. "I remember that beautiful peach-colored dome, feeling free and safe as we practically flew through Golden Gate Park, the bookstore, the bar-" Reid stopped and then looked up at Michael alarmed.

"No, Spencer. Don't go back to that now." Michael reached out and took Reid's hand.

Reid nodded slowly, happy to go back into that white-washed abyss. Then a weak but sly smile crossed his face, "I remember falling asleep with you."

Mike smiled. "Glad you kept the good parts," he laughed and squeezed Reid's hand – still fighting back the painful lump of emotion in his throat.

"Were you sleeping?" Reid asked, suddenly feeling timid as his stomach balled up with nerves.

"I was somewhere in between," Michael answered honestly. He waited a beat and then smiled again, "It probably would have been more successful if I'd had you next to me."

Reid tried to stand but when his legs shook at the slightest suggestion of supporting his weight, "Help me?" Spencer asked as he attempted to rise to his feet. Michael rose and unclipped the IV from the back of Reid's wheelchair and hung it on the IV pole at the side of his bed being careful to provide Reid with enough slack to move painlessly and easily.

With shared ingenuity and careful maneuvering, Michael guided Reid onto his hospital bed and he walked carefully to the other side. Michael's IV had been removed earlier the previous day but the paraphernalia still hung in his room waiting to be removed. All that was left of the IV on his skin was a small protruding tube at the top of his hand that had been taped over several times and clamped off, waiting to be fully removed at the time of his release. Michael climbed cautiously into the other side of the bed and as if by habit, Reid lifted his head to allow Michael to slip his arm beneath. Reid squirmed a few times until he found the right balance of pressure and comfort as he lay on his side, and when he was settle Michael moved into to fit the curve of his lithe body.

Spencer let out a sigh of relief and closed his eyes as they lay their together, the sounds of the hospital buzzing about outside their room but no longer anything more than a background disturbance. They lay there for several more long moments of peace, until Michael felt Reid shake against him and he realized the younger man had begun to cry. "Am I hurting you?" Michael asked immediately.

Reid shook his head against Michael's arm, a resounding 'no' and after a few coughs to squelch his tears and clear his throat, Reid spoke, "I don't want to leave San Francisco. What will I do without you?"

Michael kissed the side of Spencer's neck and hummed in agreement. He paused for a moment, content to hold Spencer in this relative peace, but eventually he spoke, "You're all about the random pieces of trivia, right?"

Reid gave a huff of indignation but didn't bother to correct Michael's understanding of genius and random trivia retention.

Michael kissed Reid's cheek before whispering in his ear in a low goosebump-raising tone, "Then you know how easy it is to come back here any time you like. Back in the days of the Gold Rush, when it was still the Barbaric Coast with gambling, saloons, and whore houses –they called it, 'the City.' It was the first major city out West and so whenever anyone in the state wanted to send a letter they would simply write, 'the City' and the post office would know that it was meant to come to San Francisco. I've heard that it still works, too. If you address a letter simply to 'the City' it will come straight to City Hall in San Francisco," Michael paused and kissed Reid's neck one last time before whispering sleepily, "You'll find your way back to the City and I'll be here when you find your way back to me."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for giving your time so freely to my words and ideas – each of your suggestions, critiques, and general comments are so very welcomed. I've left this open for a possible third installment but I am really sure how much more I could put Reid through and still expect him to remain realistic and coherent. DXM, or so I hear, is kind of like LSD in the sense that it doesn't make memories from the trip readily available after it occurs but flashbacks are frequent. So who knows, maybe I'll try my hand at a procedural that doesn't involve Reid being broken to bits. LOL**

**I've got a few ideas nagging me at the moment but any new stories will have to remain on hold for the next few weeks. I do owe an update for 'Word Made Flesh' so who knows, I might not keep my word on no writing. We shall see. **

**Creative acknowledgements: I would like to thank and give credit to the great minds who birth Criminal Minds and Oz – without their great characters, our world would be a little sadder. Many thanks to the artists and writers whose lyrics gave me inspiration and the occasional chapter title, in no particular order they are: Young the Giant (without Glee's cover of their song we wouldn't have this story), Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Simon & Garfunkel, T-Bone Burnett, Grateful Dead, and Frank Wildhorn. Also thanks to the authors of the historical and biographical novels, 'The Mayor of Castro Street: The Life and Times of Harvey Milk' and 'The Barbary Coast: An Informal History of San Francisco.'**

**Also, cannot emphasize enough that while some of these building and businesses do exist there has been no such activity in any of these locations. The City is a wonderful place and any dark shadows cast upon it are due to the author's own over-active imagination. **

**That's all. See you all again soon.**


	12. May the Circle Be Unbroken

**Warnings: Graphic crime scene description, some foul language, and spoilers for episodes; 'Riding the Lightning,' 'Shades of Gray,' and 'Haunted.'**

* * *

The reckoning that Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner had successfully avoided after Christopher Keller's attack on Dr. Reid, could no longer be delayed or avoided. Derek Morgan's fast actions had spared two men that day but bureaucrats rarely weigh such things where public image, and re-election, is concerned. When they had to account for every bullet discharged from their guns, what else could be expected? Hotch and Morgan had been called to headquarters for an immediate deposition by Internal Affairs, Erin Strauss, and anyone else Strauss could rally for her cause.

Derek had been no easier to get on the jet than a frightened kitten into a bath, if he'd had claws he would have dug them into the tarmac and forced the Unit Chief to drag him onto the plane. As it was, he'd gathered up his belonging reluctantly, and wondered if he could stall long enough for Spencer to awaken. Morgan needed to see for himself that Reid was in one piece, breathing, and still capable of – well, finding a way back to some semblance of normalcy. This would be the first time that Reid would awaken and he would not be there with some playful humor and a listening ear.

When Derek had boarded the plane, Reid was still unconscious. The doctors had thought it best to keep him sedated with a combination of pain medications and something that was meant to detox his system from the high concentration of drugs that he'd been given. Garcia had hacked into the electronic charting system for the hospital and was keeping Derek updated each time Reid's vitals were taken or something changed in his alertness. They checked Reid's vitals ever two to four hours and as soon as the results were charted, Morgan's phone buzzed with Garcia's surreptitiously obtained intelligence.

Derek wasn't a doctor and he knew very little about what the numbers meant – well, some of it corresponded with his own stats – the numbers he watched rise and fall on his heart monitor when he ran. Yet even that understanding was limited to his own weight and height and Reid certainly wasn't concerned with reach anaerobic activity. Some of the charting information that Garcia had sent along had mentioned concerns of cardiac damage, due to the continuously elevated heart rate while he was in the throes of upper-plateau DXM usage, to say nothing of the stress he'd endured.

Aaron sat at the table at the end of the plane, looking over the comprehensive file that JJ had compiled for him before they left for their inquisition.

The SFPD had compiled a long list of missing transients, public health recipients, and other members of the at-risk population in San Francisco. When the news reached the public, calls came flooding into the precinct – local, international, after awhile it didn't matter much to differentiate between them. There were a dozen or more men that fit Allan's type perfectly. Hotch had been on the phone with Strauss shortly after Reid had been admitted to the hospital. He prepared for the bureaucratic shitstorm as the SFPD fought to have the electricity turned on in the Hibernia Savings & Loan, speaking of bureaucratic shitstorms.

Once the lights were on, reports came back to the precinct of their findings. Yes, Allan Ng's list of victims was substantially longer than a few piqueristic attacks on transit vehicles and the escalation to the short list of men they had gathered across several counties. Upon opening each personal storage locker in the bank the local PD discovered an entirely new layer to Allan's perversions. At some point, most likely at the beginning of his career, Allan had experimented; what killed them the fastest? The slowest? How many cuts could he make – and where could he make them – that would afford him the most play time?

The first officer to step inside a freshly cracked storage locker, took one step inside the locker and promptly slid, his feet coming out from under him a few steps and then sliding the rest of the way. The officer only had time for two deep panicked breaths and then the sweet and rancid smell hit his nose, and now it was his stomach that he was fighting to gain control over.

The sound of two more small vault doors being cracked open and then a yell from his commanding officer, "Andy, get the hell out of there!" The officer-in-charge then shouted into his radio, "Everyone stays downstairs! We need a hazardous materials team in here!"

Seven of the ten lockers had been occupied by young men in various states of decay. Each cause of death was either, indeterminate because of the state of damage and decay, or differed substantially from Allan's other modes of dispatching his victims.

Allan had made the attempt to bleed one victim like a deer. Allan had cut and dressed the boy in the best way that a smooth-skinned, city boy could have ever dreamed of doing. The process had eventually proved too difficult or too taxing because instead of being strung up by his heels, the boy lay in the corner of the vault, the left side of his body slowly dissolving into the sanguine pools around him. Each personal storage locker had been equipped with a nearly impenetrable door which had accounted for the reduction in smell but upon opening it the entire bank was awash in the smell of death and decay.

The electricity had come on in time for Hotch to leave for his inquisition with a colorful, well-lit rendering of Allan's exploits in the Hibernia Savings & Loan.

Aaron was completely fixated on his notes for the meeting with IA. In Aaron's case, nerves were never an issue. His nerves had been forged in a household that had steeled them to the point that they were pretty much impervious to the likes of Erin Strauss. Granted, he probably would have fared better by bringing David Rossi into the meeting but that was another matter. As it were, his travel companion, Derek Morgan, was engrossed in his own meeting materials, headphones covering his ears and his head bobbing, on occasion, to the beat of his music.

The tension when they boarded the plane had been palpable. Aaron looked over at the solid row of seats up against the left wall of the plane. It was easy to imagine Reid laying there in his short-sleeved white shirt, looking more like an engineer than a FBI profiler. He could see the young Spencer, hair gelled into submission and those ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, looking back and forth between he and Gideon as they batted ideas about an UnSub around the cabin of the plane. It wasn't hard to recall that look of wide-eyed worry that Spencer donned anytime he couldn't read Aaron's visage, which in the beginning, was fairly often. Gideon was so good at keeping that open look of perpetual interest and care, especially when it came to Reid. Hotch was far beyond the point of wondering what Jason Gideon would have done in this situation and admittedly, it was hard to not just answer the question with: well, he'd turn and run. That wasn't fair to Jason but it still did nothing to reassure Hotch that maybe Reid would hit that same roadblock. How much more could Spencer take before walking away?

Aaron relished the idea of shoving the crime scene photos in Strauss's direction. This wasn't like Keller – they were not even in the same ballpark. Keller had been a mistake, a misstep, but Allan Ng – anyone could have fallen into his grasp. Yes, anyone could have been in Reid's place and if it hadn't been Reid the team wouldn't have necessarily been so lucky.

Strauss would gleefully dismantle the current team if she had her way. Emily Prentiss would go back to being under her thumb. Reid would be off to some CIA think-tank or other theory-based position. JJ's wholesome good-looks and intelligent sophistication would easily put her in the front-running for the face of the Bureau. Erin would find some way to get JJ to Washington or to the Pentagon – something that would make her look just as good as the blonde angel whose coattails she was riding. Aaron looked over at Morgan. Morgan would make a great recruiter – who wouldn't want to imagine their time in government service would look so good? Yeah, trainer and recruiter for the Academy for Derek.

Where would that leave him? Aaron wondered. Wherever he landed, Strauss would ensure that it was a position that would never have the potential to threaten her again. Maybe he would be transferred out to the Attorney General's office and he could use his BAU knowledge and prosecutorial training to cement a location near home. He could hear Haley's voice in his head: too little, too late, Aaron. That was the name of that tune these days – too little, too late. Why the hell had he sent Reid off with Rossi? Why hadn't he kept him in the office and under his ever-watchful gaze? Because it hurt too much to see Spencer, even with all of his bruises concealed, looking at Spencer Reid just reminded him of his failings- failings that he was on his way to answer for.

Aaron wasn't about to let the entire team fall apart before Erin Strauss had the joy of dismantling it. He was sure that Morgan would assume that his next moves would be based in a need for self-preservation – Aaron's attempt to make himself look good before facing the IA firing squad. Assumptions be damned, Aaron told himself as he rose to his feet, crossed the plane, and sat down in the seat in front of Derek Morgan.

Derek gave a few beats of the current track on his headphones before removing them slowly. "Yeah, Hotch?"

Before Aaron could speak, Derek's phone buzzed and he brought it up to his face, giving it precedence over whatever Hotch was trying to get out. Reid's stats hadn't changed and they had administered a new patch of meds to keep him feeling no pain and deep into the dreamless sleep that he'd struggled to attain on his own for so long. Morgan breathed a sigh of relief and then promptly stowed his phone.

"How is he?" Hotch asked, smiling softly at Morgan.

"That's a little easier to ask as long as you have a few dozen states between you and he?" Morgan stared at Hotch with contempt.

Hotch wasn't about to be ruffled by Derek's righteous anger. "Would you have had him stay in the office? Would it have given you peace of mind to watch him draw on maps trying to track pedophiles and murderers with that mask of bruises, jumping every time he felt someone at his back?" Aaron's eyes narrowed, daring Morgan to contradict him.

"Why, man? I mean, I don't get it, Hotch. Why send him to interview Keller when you knew just as well as any of us that Reid had that craving for male authority and Keller – man, Hotch, you gotta be kidding – we served him up on a silver platter!"

"And what?" Hotch said, quietly, "I should have sent you so you could have gotten in a few blows and gained absolutely no information? You amply displayed your skills with Peralta." Hotch took in a deep breath and then went in for the jugular, "Spencer would have gotten…would have been singled out by Allan with or without my suggestion that he accompany Rossi-"

"If the helps you sleep, man-" Derek interrupted and began to gather steam for his own verbal skewers before Hotch silenced him and continued, undeterred.

"-If we had taken him with when we arrived in the City to assist on the case," Hotch spoke carefully, "if he had gone out to get a drink because he wasn't sleeping, if he had met Michael Peralta by happenstance, that wouldn't have changed Allan's motivations. It wouldn't have changed Allan's strange fixation on the object of Reid's affections," Hotch paused when Morgan turned his focus away from the Unit Chief, "And it wouldn't have made your jealousy any easier to deal with."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me, really, Hotch?" Morgan's voice was more flippant than it was filled with anger but there was no mistaking that Aaron had hit a nerve. "You think this is about jealousy? Are you really losing your instinct that much?"

Yeah, two could play that game! Morgan thought, watching as Aaron's eyes narrowed.

"What is Garcia sending you?" Hotch asked looking at Derek's phone, resting close by. "She hack into the medical records database or something of the like? You getting updates on Reid's vitals each time they take them?" When Derek shifted evasively, "Under-estimating the one you're profiling is probably the biggest mistake you can make, Morgan. Have I really lost my instinct?"

Derek sighed, "How's he going to come back from this? I mean, c'mon, Hotch! How is he going to go back to being who he was? He was a mess after Keller's attack and now this?" He looked down at his phone, dejectedly, "He'll walk out. Gideon tried to come back after his breakdown and he lasted a few years at best but we both knew he was ready to throw in the towel long before that."

"What if he does walk away?" Hotch said seriously. "What if he wakes up and all he remembers is the last night he spent with Michael Peralta? What if he does decide to stay in California, have some barefoot ceremony in Santa Cruz where he vows to God and everyone that Michael is his new focus?" Now he was just needling Derek, but he had to admit though that the idea of Reid happily married, safe, and far from the Bureau was a nice idea. He was happy for any member of his team that was able to hold onto the kind of happiness that he'd neglected.

It was the first comforting image he'd had of Spencer in a long time. Spencer standing on some sandy beach, hair wind-blown, barefoot, and beaming happily at the man they'd both been poised to rip limb from limb not more than a few days ago. He could see Spencer in one of his sweater vests, khaki pants, and Converse shoes coming through the door of a colorfully painted Victorian after a long day of teaching at a local university. He could see Spencer in an elaborate study, lined floor to ceiling with texts, and Reid happily curled up on a couch, reading to the man who would listen to him with rapped attention. Jason's departure was capitulation – weakness dressed up as soul-searching. Spencer had earned the right to walk away and there wasn't a member of team that would begrudge him.

"Why him?" Derek said, finally letting out a long-held huff of frustration. "More than a half of a million men in San Francisco and Reid had to gravitate to an ex-con!"

Aaron laughed, heartily. "Sitting at his bed side, threatening to maim Peralta, and everything else you've done for him – Reid is well aware of how transference works. If he is aware, which is unlikely, he most likely considers it to one-sided. It's Reid we're talking about, Morgan – he's not about to make any blatant overtures," Aaron paused, softening his expression as Morgan still looked angry and frustrated, "He needed someone that didn't know what we knew, Derek. Our affection for each other is without a doubt, it has to be in this line of work, but it's unfair to expect him to take your support in that way."

"Solving my problems helping with your guilt, Hotch?" Derek said, a hint of cruelty in his tone.

"Would you have run to the Savings & Loan if you knew he never would return you affections, that way?" Hotch refused to stray from his line of questioning. "Spencer was trained. He's worked under some of the best profilers and FBI agents the Bureau has to offer," He nodded at Morgan, "his choice to go back to Oz was _his_ choice. I wish I could have intervened. If he had called and told me his plans I would have ordered him to come home. It wasn't his job to hold Nathan Harris's hand during his psych evaluation and it was not his job to hold Keller's hand as they prepared him to die. Spencer made his choices, he took those risks, just as we all take those risks at times, and this time he risked too much, he was willing to give away too much for the peace of mind of a man who didn't deserve even the smallest iota of consideration." Aaron could still hear Spencer's indignant cry, _'So you're punishing me?' Aaron could recall his lines easily, 'No, I am using you.'_ It's what they did, after all. Just like when the Death Row inmate had requested to smell JJ's hair as compensation for the names and locations of additional victims; those trade-offs made him uneasy but his team made it easy for him. He could protest and like good soldiers they knew to walk straight into battle, to sacrifice what was needed for the greater good.

"They going to shut us down?" Derek asked, pulling Hotch from his memories.

"That remains to be seen," Derek's phone buzzed again, Hotch smiled at Morgan, "How is he? Still asleep?"

Morgan smiled, "Yeah, he's still out. He needed the sleep."

Hotch nodded, "If I could have taken his place, if I could have stood in for any of his suffering, I would have done it." _Do you think he will forgive me?_ He wanted to ask but the Unit Chief remained silent.

Morgan nodded slowly, "We'll bring him home soon." Aaron still didn't look terribly confident at that assertion, "Hotch, he'll heal – we all do – and we'll be there for that. It's all we can do."

The two men spent the rest of the flight compiling their notes and varied plans of attack for Strauss's firing squad. If Spencer was coming home, he needed a home to come home to, and the survival of the BAU was an integral part of that.

#-#-#-#-#-#

It seemed appropriate that the meeting should take place after the sun had gone down. _Under cover of darkness,_ Hotchner thought, shaking his head ruefully at the irony of it. Erin Strauss and the other members of the panel wanted to give the impression of oversight and transparency in this time of fiscal restrictions but it was just bluster. He was prepared, and after the stress of Reid's abduction, and all of the foibles and missteps that surrounded it, the only thing that worried him was keeping his temper in check.

It was also no surprise when Derek Morgan was called into the conference room first.

Morgan stayed behind the rich mahogany doors for over an hour. Knowing Erin, she probably even paced her tone according to the clock that was within her line of sight – anything to make Aaron squirm.

Where Derek left the conference room he looked angry which immediately became anxiousness, as he dug through his suit-pockets looking for his silenced cellular phone. Derek was so engrossed in a string of newly-received text messages that he didn't even notice Hotch when he passed by him and went in through the mahogany doors.

"Agent Hotchner, please take a seat." Erin Strauss' voice came coolly from the darkened end of the room.

Hotch drew in closer, to see a simple desk set in front of a long panel of seats. In the center of the panel was Erin Strauss, to her left was her immediate supervisor, and to her right was an older man – a more senior member of the Bureau. At the end of the panel, and purely for ornamental purposes, Aaron was sure, were two fresh-faced agents – the closest they could come to members of the public without compromising security.

Their questions bordered on banal job interview questions, inane askings that Hotch was sure, the cadets on the end could have handled just as smoothly. What provisions had he taken to ensuring the teams safety? What opportunities for continued physical training?

One member of the panel had his evaluation for the team members in front of him and he was actually reading from Spencer's evaluation. Hotch had given him favorable marks in everything and, for that quarter, he had nothing negative to add about any addition field risks Reid would pose.

Then the questions took a sharp left turn, "Agent Reid was able to establish himself within the BAU at a fairly uncharacteristic young age, given his recent traumas in the field would it be prudent for the rest of your team to consider his reassignment to another area within the Bureau?"

As Hotch listened to his superior his eyes narrowed in comprehension of the suggestion.

"Agent Hotchner, you'd been considered for a position within the white-collar crimes division, perhaps with Agent Reid's propensity with numbers and information retention, he may be more useful in a comparable position." The man's sounded paternalistically condescending but for a moment Hotch was willing to entertain the idea.

It was an alluring fantasy, for sure. The idea of getting home from a case and watching contentedly as the team staggered through the Bureau doors, as Spencer walked in the opposite direction looking well-rested and safe. It wasn't as if an UnSub had never tracked them to the BAU and it was foolish for anyone in a large office complex to assume total security, even in a Federal building.

"I have no doubt," Aaron began after taking a sip of the water in front of him to clear his throat, "that _Dr. Reid_ will excel within any area of the Bureau but his place is with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Each member of our team contributes a unique set of knowledge and skills that allows us to hold the kind of successful record that we do. Interviewing Christopher Keller at the Oswald facility was a potentially fatal venture for any of the agents who would have attempted to conduct that interview," Hotch paused, taking in the looks of incredulity that faced him.

He continued, "I have a flawless marksmanship record, as well as top marks in hand-to-hand, and other defense techniques. Yet years ago, when Reid and I were unexpectedly locked in with another Death Row rapist and murderer it was Dr. Reid, not I, who made sure that we escaped unscathed. Dr. Reid is an eloquent and intelligent speaker that I would entrust with my life at any moment and that day, I did. The attack on Dr. Spencer Reid is the sole fault and direct result of the negligent leadership of the Oswald facility. If Spencer had received the support from the corrections officers at the facility, the attack would have never occurred-"

Strauss interrupted, "The officer in charge of Death Row had indicated Agent Reid as the instigator of the events that had transpired and furthermore, we have word from several of the prison officials that would imply a level of, shall we say, inappropriateness between the two," Hotch tried to hear her words, tried to formulate a reasonable response to such an unreasonable accusation.

"I am not sure if any of my team members would stand up to the scrutiny of the untrained, uneducated eye of the general public. Isn't that one of the biggest assets we provide to local law enforcement? We know how to interrogate and communicate with members of society that they've shut out. You've observed first-hand," Aaron looked squarely at Erin Strauss, "the shoddy effort and understanding that some put forth – law enforcement officers that substitute brutality for psychology. Dr. Spencer Reid is the antithesis of that, he can maintain a cool and analytical mindset even in the most trying of circumstances. It was because of Dr. Reid that we were able to bring in several serial murderers bloodlessly, and with a confession. In past situations, I'd seen Agent Gideon hold hands and physically comfort a woman that then was determined to be our UnSub. Emily Prentiss acted as babysitter and doled out snacks to an UnSub that was underage, all the while as he happily shared his punishment and murder of his younger brother, the family pets, and his other fantasies. I am sure neither situation would have sat well with some high-school graduate, disgruntled, corrections officer." Hotch took a deep breath and opened the folder in front of him and then encouraged the members of the panel to observe the information that he'd provided them.

"Dr. Spencer Reid's abduction by Allan Ng has been determined as a tragic accident. Through several moments of coincidence, Dr. Reid made contact with the object of Allan Ng's obsessional rage. If David Rossi was scheduled to speak at that bookstore just a day before Dr. Reid found himself there, Rossi could have just as easily made contact with Michael Peralta and gained the attention of our UnSub, Allan Ng." Aaron held out the first photograph of the newly-opened bank vaults.

"Allan Ng had operated undisturbed for months out of the Hibernia Savings and Loan. Given Dr. Reid's current residence as it was in relation to Ng's place of work, home, and other frequented areas – he had the potential of running afoul of Ng with or without his interactions with Peralta. Dr. Reid's abduction led to the end of Ng's reign of terror over the city of San Francisco." Hotch held up another, more detailed shot of one of the neglected vaults that contained one of Allan's earlier kills.

The older man looked at seriously at Agent Hotchner, "I am willing to delay the findings of this board until Dr. Reid can receive a full evaluation and provide his preference of remaining within the BAU given his trauma." The older man gave a look of firm authority down at the other members of the panel. "In three weeks time, we will review your recommendations, as well as Dr. Reid's suggestions for his tenure at the Bureau." Strauss tried not to let her feelings of anger come across too boldly as she tried to object. The older man waved a hand in her direction as her counter-argument began to pick up steam.

"No," The older man said firmly, his free hand coming into his jacket pocket to finger a loose gold medallion inside. "Agent Hotchner has followed protocol to the letter and Agent Morgan could account for each shot and his reasoning behind it, the local PD has enough information to lay to rest many claims filled by families who were missing their sons. All that is left is for Allan Ng's final victim, Dr. Reid, to recover. Agent Hotchner, please convey to him our wish for his quick and full recovery. His job, in whatever form he would like it to take, waits for him when he returns."

Aaron rose from his chair, pleased to not have to take in anymore dire news but also puzzled as to how Reid had earned the appreciation from such a senior member of the Bureau.

#-#-#-#-#-#

It had only been a week since he'd seen Spencer but the condition he'd left him in was less than comforting. It had been the second time in the span of months that Derek Morgan had stood next to a barely conscious and battered Dr. Spencer Reid. He'd never become accustomed to the level of fear and rage that ran through him with each sight of discolored or swollen skin. If it hadn't been for Garcia sending him those updates while Reid was in recovery, he would have lost his mind.

After the meeting with IA, Derek had found a way to make peace with Agent Hotchner. He had turned down the other leadership positions in the past, Derek told himself, and it was for dreading the possibility that he would find himself in a situation not unlike Hotch's current predicament. Aaron was the captain and if Reid sank on his watch, well it would be only natural to feel the need to go down with the ship. How could he stay if his orders had led to the decimation of one of the members of his team?

Derek had slung that question and more in Hotch's direction and through several tense and emotional conversations, Derek found his way back to empathy. But of course, Aaron Hotchner was never one for pulling his punches either.

Derek wasn't about to divulge those thoughts that Hotchner had called him on in the plane and he stood in front of Spencer Reid's apartment door wondering if he ever would dare to articulate how he felt.

Derek swallowed his nervousness and rapped again on Reid's apartment door. He could hear feet moving quickly towards the door and after a pause at the peephole, the door was flung open and before Morgan could prepare himself Reid was in his arms.

"Woah," Derek said, stepping back in surprise but not hesitating in wrapping his arms around the slender young man. "Feeling's mutual, pretty boy!" He squeezed Reid gingerly before stepping back again from the hug.

Reid was already staring at his feet, a hue of redness gracing his cheeks and nose. "You're the first one to see me." He said a bit sheepishly.

"Does that mean you've got some cleaning to do before I come in?"

"No," Reid said, matter-of-factly in his clear, up-beat tone, "for the first time the couch is book-free. I've been sleeping there most of the time, so…yeah," Reid cut himself off and sat down at one end of the couch throwing his bed pillow off the side of the couch where it would be hidden by the couch's arm.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Derek began but Reid just smiled reassuringly. "Garcia called once she knew I was awake – what, did you have her hack into the hospital records or something – but I wasn't alone much while I was there."

Derek didn't want to inquire as to Reid's meaning but did not mean to blurt out the first thing that came to his mind, "Will you be going back?"

"To the hospital?" Reid asked, sounding perfectly serious, "No, everything is healed for the most part. I still have to mind a few things, no heavy lifting –" Reid chuckled, "but other than that, I am clear for 'whatever I feel up to' the doctor said." Reid said looking at Derek as if to reassure him.

"No, Reid," Derek said with a bit more sadness than he had intended, "back to San Francisco?"

Morgan would have sold his soul for the look that Reid had taken on to be directed at him. At the mere hint of Michael, Reid's cheek had gone red again, he was fidgeting slightly with hem of his polo shirt, and looking generally adorable.

"No," Reid mumbled, shifting so he could tuck one of his khaki-covered legs underneath himself, "I don't think I will be."

Then Morgan watched as the giddiness faded from Spencer's demeanor and he seemed to remember what his future truly held. "We're not going to try and make a go of it. He said he wouldn't let me," Reid said, not looking up at Morgan, "'What would an ex-con at the other end of the country really have to offer long term for an FBI genius?' Was something to the effect of what he said."

Morgan smiled inwardly. Apparently, this Michael kid wasn't as dumb as he looked.

Reid shook his head, "It wasn't about abandoning me. Every time I call, he answers and he isn't cold towards me or anything like that. I guess, I know where he's coming from. It's just…" Reid looked at the other end of the couch, toward Morgan, for understanding. "Are you here to tell me that Hotch has relieved me of any attachment here? Am I free to go back to California?" Reid gave a rueful laugh.

"Hotch has been ordered to submit you to a six-month-long evaluation and field-recertification. Hotch said the Executive Director had made the request." Reid nodded happily at the good news. Then looked at Derek and his smile promptly grew into a frown, "How does Hotch plan on accomplishing that? I only know of one hand-to-hand instructor and I am pretty sure he wouldn't be willing to throw me around the ring for a second chance at a remediation." Reid tried to remain serious but felt his chapped lips curl into a smile.

"Ready any time you are, pretty boy." Derek said with a playful laugh, swatting at Reid's arm but immediately regretting the carefree gesture when Reid jerked back sharply.

Reid immediately began to apologize. Derek held up the same hand as if to quiet Spencer, "Have you been sleeping?"

"Better than the last time you saw me in a hospital bed," Reid said, looking back down at his lap and avoiding Morgan's look of concern. "I don't remember much of what happened but I remember the dreams I had then, does that make any sense? There is this blankness where that week used to be. I want to go back but for once, I am glad not to have a memory." Reid stopped, thought unfinished, as he looked up at Derek with a look of pure distress, "What if I come back and the memories come back, like they did with Hankel and the girls in the leaves. Gideon had written me before he left saying that he just needed to find his belief in things ending happily again. I guess, I just need to know that things can stay forgotten."

Morgan moved forward on the couch, reaching out for Reid's free hand – the one not occupied by fidgeting- and held it in his, "It will come back, Reid. Don't push away the ones that could help you through them."

Reid didn't have it in him to get angry. He wouldn't throw the forced junket onto Morgan's shoulders. Morgan had been the one to sit beside him through all of that and by all accounts looked guilty, (and could that be, jealous?) that he was denied that position once again.

Reid shook his head again, "I know what Gideon meant though. He'd lost that one person who understood him but was removed from all of this. You and Rossi have gone above and beyond what you needed to do for me. But how can I stay knowing that I need so much more than an endless stack of textbooks and case-files to make it through sundown?"

Derek laughed when Reid dejectedly gestured to a stack of such proportions threatening to overwhelm his dining area table. Morgan extended an arm in Reid direction and Spencer didn't take a moment's pause before scooting closer and tucking into the embrace. "I plan on being here no matter what you decide and if the memories do come back," He took Reid's fidgeting hand in his and squeezed it, "we'll be ready for them."

Spencer paused to consider what Derek had asserted. He thought of Rossi talking him into sleep at the beginning of their trip. He thought of meetings he could attend to set his mind at ease, to avoid being alone, and to impress upon his sponsor today in the IA meeting, that he was committed to the straight-and-narrow. He knew he'd done nothing wrong but something about being seen to fall in line felt very important. He'd do everything they required of him because in the end, eventually –they would let up – they would let up, and through the fog, he'd find his way back to Michael and to The City.

* * *

**A/N: Well, this had been sitting on my desktop incomplete since August. WOW! Thank you, all for your continued interest and patience. I can already feel a third part nagging at my brain so this isn't the end – not yet, anyhow. I hope this resolved some of the questions you had and that there wasn't too much schmaltz at the end. Thanks again and I hope you have a fabulous 2013! **


End file.
